Ryan Smithers watched as his father hauled the flat boat through the water grass and up onto the muddy banks of the cobblestone road. When the bow was over solid land, Waylon offered him a hand out. Ryan took it awkwardly, and hopped onto the flat stones. Together they hauled the boat the remaining several feet, till it was fully ashore.

Waylon sat down on a nearby stump and slipped off his loafers. He poured an unpleasant amount of muddy water from them before slipping them back on.

Ryan watched the process. "Your feet are wet."

"Wet feet are the least of my concerns right now," Waylon replied. He straightened up, and slid his blazer on. He buttoned it up, covering the shoulder holster and revolver he wore. After pausing to straighten his bowtie, he gestured down the avenue. "It's a straight walk from here."

The paved cobble road, nearly buried under the low-slung arms of some ancient oak trees lead up to the very door of Belledouleur House.

The swamp was oddly silent here. The familiar drone of insects Ryan had become accustomed to faded away. The air was still and oppressive. Not so much as the hint of a breeze. Ryan glanced around nervously, looking at the dolls that hung motionless from the trees. There were so many. He could barely move without ducking to avoid them. Several feet further though, the forest of hanging dolls ended, as if even they were afraid to venture nearer.

Ryan found the sudden end of their presence more disconcerting than having them there in the first place.

Waylon's voice answered his unspoken question. "And now, we've gone further than any of the locals will ever tread." Waylon gestured off to their left, along the property that met the swamp. There, jutting from the murky water like the last broken tooth from a diseased gum, jutted a massive broad stone. A marker for a grave.

"Wainwright's buried there," Waylon explained as they passed.

Ryan shuddered. The stone was remarkably free of moss, but marred by black streaks of lichens. Beyond Wainwright's name, the remaining words, the dates of his birth and death, had been eaten away by passing years.

"The river's come closer," Waylon noted. "Last time I was here, this was all dry land."

The water bowed in from the grave, coming nearly to the cobbles on which they walked.

"How much further?" Ryan asked.

"You can see it from here."

Ryan didn't have to ask what "it" was.

The manor was barely visible through the leaves and vines that surrounded it. Ryan could just make out the massive form, a darker shadow in the swamp. If he hadn't been looking, Ryan might've mistaken it for a trick of the light. Now that he knew what he saw, the outline took shape. As they approached, the trees beside the lane fell away, exposing an oddly open expanse before the house. Aside from the water that curled against the side lawn, the house seemed oddly exposed, as if the swamp itself wanted nothing to do with the place.

Though the once expansive grass lawns had been overgrown with grass and reeds. Ryan could still see the difference in the land. He could tell what must've been maintained gardens, and what was once cropland. The ground sloped down towards the field, contrasting with the slight rise towards the house.

Belledouleur itself sat buried in age and time. Once it had been painted, but the paint had faded to a moldy grey, then fallen away as flakes of the plaster fronting crumbled. A two story building, the plantation house claimed the ruined land, refusing even now to yield to time.

The front porch of the house was supported by four massive roman pillars reaching from the floor of the entry to the top of the second floor. Several gabled windows were spaced along the attic roof. Two double-story wings extended on both sides from the main body of the house.

Undeterred, Waylon strode forward, up the wide steps and on to the creaking porch. The smell of wet wood and mildew filled Ryan's nostrils. He rubbed his face, and shrank closer to Waylon's side, hoping his father wouldn't notice. Waylon paused, looking down at the porch. He dropped to his knees, and ran a finger over the wood. After a moment he rose, and examined the tarnished knobs of the double front door.

"He's been here," Waylon muttered, wiping his hands on his already dirty pants. "I don't know if he's still here, but he was here at one point."

"Wainwright?" This place seemed a true haunted house if ever there was one. The words left Ryan's mouth before he realized how ridiculous they sounded. Wainwright was clearly dead. The only person Waylon could possibly be talking about was Montgomery Burns. He felt a flush of embarrassment.

Waylon, fortunately, didn't seem to hear him. He was lost in thought, hand hovering above the doorknob, as if listening to something.

Waylon Smithers found himself frozen. His mind replayed memories of his and Burns' relationship over the years. He saw the man's face, images of him in sickness… and in health. His imagination saw fit to match each memory with a hope, dream, or fear.

Whatever lay beyond this door, he had a feeling it would change everything.

He realized he'd become intimately aware of every detail around him. He felt the slight give in the boards of the porch as Ryan shifted his weight. Waylon heard a few insects, and the notable lack of birdsong. He could smell the wet wood, the sulfur and moss of the swamp; he felt the still air almost heavy against his shoulders. There was another smell to the air: something evocative, like ozone.

This was the moment, Waylon decided: the calm before the storm. Whatever happened next, it would be quick, shocking, and possibly brutal.

He felt the familiar pressure of the revolver against his ribs; heard Ryan give a slight cough.

"Are we going?" Ryan asked, interrupting the moment.

Waylon looked up into the darkening sky. The mist had not burned off, and clouds were rolling in. He hung his head, and lowered his hand to the knob. "Yes, Ryan," he replied, steeling his nerves for the worst. "We are."

Waylon twisted the knob in his hand, and shoved.

The door swung open easily, hardly offering the resistance he'd been expecting. He'd used too much force. The knob slipped from his hand and the door banged loudly against the inside wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the empty halls. Waylon steadied the door and looked back at Ryan. He offered a weak and apologetic shrug to his son.

"If he's here, he now he knows we are too."

Ryan tried to grin, to put on a brave face. The effect yielded only a grimace beneath frightened hazel eyes.

The grand entry hall of Belledouleur was mostly empty. Directly across from the front door was a fireplace, framed by two doors that lead into the back portion of the house. A staircase curved up along the left wall, wrapping over the fireplace, and extending above the right side of the room to the second floor. The ceiling was high, easily ten feet, and supported by a pair of roman pillars that held the weight of the second floor landing.

On either side, two massive entryways with doors that slid into the walls were open. The left opened into what appeared to be an old ball- or music-room. A stained and off-kilter grand piano lurked in the shadows. The ceiling was equally high, and an ornate fireplace filled the far wall. There was a second door off that room, a single door, but it was closed.

To the right, was apparently a library, and beyond that maybe a dining room. Without much furniture, it was hard to tell. The only light came from the dirty windows, covered by lace curtains that once must've been beautiful, but were now covered in dust and cobwebs.

A few moldy couches, fabric rotted as fragile as crepe paper sit in the hollow rooms. The floor was covered with dead leaves, and what appeared to be sheets of paper.

Waylon stooped down and picked one up. It tore in his hand. He could barely make out the tight handwriting, not Monty's, covering the blackened page. It was a page out of a journal.

Ryan made a gagging sound, and kicked a dead mouse into a corner. He wrapped his arms tightly across his chest. His eyes said it all. He wanted to leave, but he didn't want to go alone.

I'll stay here with you, his face said, but I don't like it here.

Waylon felt the same way.

Across the floor were signs of recent traffic. The leaves had been crushed to powder between the entryway and staircase, indicating someone had made this trip often. The doorway to the rear of the house was devoid of cobwebs, which suggested recent use. Waylon knotted his fingers through his short hair and tried to remember the details of his last trip.

Burns had been aloof and focused, not hesitating as he headed towards the stairs. He'd instructed Waylon to stay below. Waylon closed his eyes, and tried to envision what he would do if he were Monty Burns.

"He's upstairs," Waylon said. "There's nothing down here for him."

Ryan looked forlornly at the stairs. "Will the floor even hold us?"

Waylon put his foot on the wide bottom step and leaned forward, pushing down.

The stair creaked, but felt solid enough.

He took a second step, and gave a slight hop.

Another creak, this one louder, but that was it.

"I'm fairly certain," he replied. He started up, then paused, feeling eyes on the back of his head. He turned and looked back. Ryan was standing in the center of the room, hugging himself, looking miserable.

"I don't want to go up there," he whispered.

Waylon turned, and made his way down. He reached out, and drew Ryan against him. "I don't either. But I promise you, Ryan, nothing bad will happen to you. I won't let it. I promise!"

Ryan didn't resist Waylon's arms. Instead, he leaned into them. Waylon held the boy's shoulders firmly, reassuringly. After a minute, Ryan leaned back.

"Are you going to be okay?" Waylon asked.

Ryan exhaled and rolled his eyes up to the second landing. "I guess we do this now, huh Waylon."

"It's what we came here to do," Waylon replied. Hand still on Ryan's shoulders, they ascended the stairs together.

The second floor was equally hollow as the one they'd just left. Two hallways stretched out over the wings, with open doorways into empty chambers. Arbitrarily, Waylon chose to turn right. When he hit the end of the hall, he found himself in a room. It must've been a child's room once upon a time.

Various wooden toys sat on shelves, a black-streaked red cap hung on a hat-rack. There was a microscope, and a telescope; several books on chemistry on the shelf above the bed. A writing desk in the far corner. It took Waylon a moment to realize what he was looking at.

He was standing in the childhood room of his long-time friend and partner: Charles Montgomery Burns.

The room itself appeared untouched. Spider webs hung, sagging from the weight of the dust that had accumulated on them. Waylon regarded the room with new eyes. Here, a tin-type photograph of young Charles and Wainwright downstairs. There, a painting of Wainwright and a massive, shaggy wolfhound at his side. There was an odd aura to the room: despite that it had been a child's room, it felt as if the contents had never witnessed childhood. As if young Monty had kept everything there, museum-like. The only things that showed true evidence of use were the books, chemistry vials, and 'scopes. There was a sadness to the place, despite the toys on the shelves. Innocence lost, that could never be regained.

Waylon felt fingers of melancholy slide around his heart. He hung his head. He thought of his own childhood, but it was nothing compared to this. At least his room always felt like a home.

This room, it was a mockery of such things.

Waylon couldn't bear to look at it any further. Grabbing Ryan by the arm, he guided the black haired youth with him, past the stairs, down to the opposite wing.

Above the library was a room that must've been Wainwright's personal suite. A study attached to the master bedchamber, a fireplace at the corner, and a massive desk by the window. In the study, on the desk a book lay open, pages grey-green with mildew.

Waylon reached towards it, then drew his hand back. He had no idea what it was. A journal perhaps? And what if Monty still wanted it? This room, Wainwright's private chamber, was oddly austere. He would've expected a level of grandeur similar to that which Monty surrounded himself with back at the manor. Or, possibly, something dark and evil.

It was neither. Oddly light and airy, even after all these years. Simple, wholesome. The sort of room one could almost feel safe in.

Waylon shuddered. That was, perhaps, most unnerving of all.

He made to leave, when a sheet of paper poking out of a drawer caught his attention. It wasn't the paper, exactly, it was the writing on it.

Waylon could recognize Monty Burns' neat handwriting anywhere. Though the paper was ancient, it seemed to have fared better than most the other relics. Every so gingerly, Waylon slid the drawer open, and lifted the letter (for that it what it was) onto the desk.

My Dear Father,

I cannot express my gratitude at your munificence. Yale, then Oxford for the pursuit of chemistry and science? This opportunity clearly sets me above my peers.

At the same time, Father, there are some questions I might yet ask? My old friend Lawrence: what has become of him? I know from your letter that his father, Edmond Harlgrove has neither been seen nor heard from in well over several months. Why is it, Father, I am led to believe you had a hand in it?

Are the rumors true what's been said? Old Wildfell making sport of cracking a human femur as he lay beside you at the banquet? I cannot believe that. For even if you had taken such an urge to dispose of Edmond, I doubt you would've been so meretricious in your actions afterward.

I do remember what you said about Lawrence, and about me. That, as a Burns it is my birthright to go where I wish, do what I wish, and take whom I wish. Did such liasons leave him as ruined as you'd hoped? Herein my confession, it was never my design to ruin anybody, least of all a man who had done me no harm. A man whose company I enjoyed. Your quarrel with Edmond was never mine, and as I grow older, I refuse to let it become my concern.

Europe is, of course, everything I had hoped.

In addition to my studies, I have news of a more personal sort. I have met the woman I intend to marry: a young woman of complemental pedigree to my own. I met her in France on holiday. Her name is Lyla.

I shall not ask for your blessings in this matter, Father, for I know you would have none to give. Rest assured though, that she shall do the family name proud.

Yours, lovingly and sincerely,

- Charles

There was a second letter in the drawer, unopened, and dated after the first.

Waylon didn't hesitate. He lifted a letter opener off the desk, and split the wax seal. He held it in his hands, first to read the words penned so long ago.

My Dear Father,

Ought those words be honorable, or ironic? Verily I am not sure.

You've not responded in regards to Lyla. I fear I have your answer.

Regardless, that is irrelevant. You see, 'father,' I have done it! I have succeeded where you have failed! In all your laudanum induced fervors, your adherence to ancient gobbledegook and arcane falsities, I have indulged in science, and found my own way to long life! I would share this technique with you, but alas I fear you've taught me too well. I think I shall keep this little gem to myself. Rest assured you will never get it from me. Perhaps, just maybe, I might share it on your deathbed, but don't expect me to.

I will be returning to Belledouleur on the next Atlantic crossing.

Through it all, I confess a portion of my heart still looks forward to seeing you again, even now. Perhaps I am not as perfect a specimen as you envisioned me to be. Or, perhaps, I am merely a creature of my own design.

Lyla has accepted my proposal, and we are due to be wed when I return to Europe after my sojourn in America.

Herein I have another confession, father. I do no longer go by the name which you bestowed upon me. That 'Charles' is my name, I cannot deny, but I feel, in lieu of my own discoveries and advances, it only fitting to take a new appellation. I have taken to being known as Monty, a nickname first shared only with myself, then eventually with Lyla as well.

She says, I might add, that it fits me far better than 'Charles' ever did.

You may address me, grandfather, as 'C. Montgomery Burns,' and I shan't respond to anything less than Monty. You have raised me too well, I fear: too strong, and too easily bold. I will not bend to anyone's will again, and that includes yours.

I appreciate all you've shown me.

Your 'au fait' grandson,

- Monty

Waylon held the letter in his hands, reading it again to be sure he hadn't missed anything. He was about to say something when he felt Ryan's hand on his arm.

"Dad," he whispered, pointing down the hall, "there's someone on the landing above…"