Waylon Smithers followed his son's pointing hand. There, at the bend in the stair, a white figured hunched, watching them. In the shadows, Waylon could barely make out details.
"Monty?" he called out, tucking the brittle letters into his blazer. "Is that you?"
The figure turned, silently, and ascended the stairs.
Ryan at his heel, he hurried into the main hall and thrust himself over the railing, craning his neck towards the floor above. He saw nothing, no one. "Come on, Ryan," he urged, reaching out for his son's arm. He half-led, half-dragged Ryan forward. The boy hesitated, but ultimately did not resist.
Waylon bounded up the stairs, two at a time, coming to a halt just outside a final door at the top of the flight. Without pause, Waylon pushed it open. He was immediately hit with a blast of warm, stale air. Reeling slightly from the sensation, he stepped into a long, vaulted attic that ran the length of the house. The only light came from several gables, but the windows had been covered with heavy cloth.
The room appeared to be set up like a work-shop or primitive laboratory with an emphasis on the supernatural, rather than the scientific. Several bird skulls hung like a grotesque mobile, dangling in one of the window wells.
Lines of chalk and smeared white powder covered the floor, and pinned to the support posts were various sigils Waylon couldn't begin to identify.
Despite the sighting of someone on the stairs, the attic appeared devoid of life other than their own. A long, high bench, covered with glassware and condensing coils, was built into the side wall. Several books lay in a haphazard stack at one end, as if they'd been thrown there.
Ryan detached himself from Waylon's grasp. He approached the bench, head tilted to the side, reaching for one of the books. Ryan's attention was solely on the desk.
Out of the corner of his eye, Waylon saw motion.
A wraithlike shape detached itself from the space between two beams, and descend noiselessly on his son.
Waylon barely had time to cry out "Ryan!," before the boy was grabbed bodily by his shoulders and pulled into the dark.
No, no, no! Waylon muttered to himself, springing into action. He galloped around a dark, concealed corner by the desk. Beyond lay a small room, a second attic over the rear portion of the house.
Waylon skidded to a halt.
In the dim light from the rows of dormer windows, he could make out the form of Charles Montgomery Burns.
Burns stood, motionless, in the center of the room. He held Ryan silently by the chin, looking at the boy as one might study a particularly fine racehorse. He turned Ryan's head this way and that, examining his face from all angles.
"Monty?"
Burns completely ignored Waylon.
"Yes," he hissed, examining Ryan. "You're the spiriting image of him. The mouth's a bit wrong, and the face is too young, but those eyes… yes…"
Ryan tried to pull his head back, but Burns tightened his clawlike grasp.
"Monty!" Waylon barked out.
Burns shook his head. "No one here by that name, my fellow. Why don't you run along now, go back from whence you came."
"I'm not leaving without you."
Burns gave Ryan an annoyed shake, and turned to face Waylon square on. "Dammit, man. What could I possibly want with you?"
Waylon realized Burns was dressed in the white southern finery of the previous century. His right hand rested on the head of a long cane; the same cane Waylon had seen Wainwright holding in the pictures. Waylon felt beads of sweat start to condense on his brow. Whether it was from nerves or the stifling heat, he wasn't sure.
Burns approached him slowly. "Ah, by the blood of my fathers, I do recognize you. You're Waylon Smithers' boy. What was the child's name? Waylon himself was it? You've grown up to be quite the strapping fellow, I see."
Waylon took a step forward, but Burns held up the foot of the cane, blocking him.
"That's far enough, Waylon Junior. Yes… it's been too many days here, but I'm remembering you now. We had a comradery of sorts, very peculiar. Not entirely unlike some of the ones I've shared before… and yet completely unlike any of them in the same vein. Well, Waylon Junior, what do you want?"
Waylon gestured around him. "This place, Monty. It's not good for your head. here's some evil or deviltry at work. I came to bring you home."
Burns' lips drew back in a predatory smile. He leaned both hands over the head of his cane and Waylon noticed his fingernails had been chewed ragged. "Home? My dear fellow, I think you're sadly mistaken." He moved away from Waylon, closer towards Ryan. "I am home."
"Wainwright…" Ryan muttered, trying to put distance between him and Burns.
The old man's face contorted at the name.
Burns turned on Ryan with a sudden savagery. "How dare you utter than name in my presence, fiend? You, of all creatures, who sees fit to torment me from beyond the grave with your hollow mockery? Ah, it's a good attempt to be sure… but not good enough."
Ryan backed up, raising his hands. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"
Burns followed, matching him step for step. "Oh, don't you though? The first time I saw your eyes, I thought no, it must be a trick of the light. But no. When I returned to Springfield, I took great pains to study all images thereof. Those are the same eyes, and there is no way that's possible."
Ryan's back was pressed against the wall. There was nowhere for him to retreat.
"What's he talking about?" Ryan asked over to his father, a note of panic in his voice.
Waylon's hands were at the buttons of his blazer, unfastening them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Burns cut him off.
"Those eyes belong to one Waylon Smithers Senior. A man who I knew well too long ago, a man who sacrificed his life so that the city as his loved ones might survive. That ageless look in them, wise beyond their years? The same as you hold now? You have no right to those eyes, and I can't bear it when you look at me."
Burns clasped his hands around the head of his cane. "Even now, you're killing me!"
With a sudden motion, Burns grasped the cane in both hands. With a twisting motion he pulled out a long, silver blade of a sword, and held the tip just under Ryan's chin.
"Monty, no!"
Waylon had unbuttoned his blazer, and stood, hand hovering above his revolver. "Please, don't," he begged. "Put the sword down."
"You care for this imposter do you?" Burns sneered, holding the sword perfectly still.
"That's no imposter, Monty. Nor is he a ghost. That's Ryan… my son."
Son? It can't be. The sword started to feel heavy in Monty's grasp. He felt his resolve weakening. The blade tip lowered, but only for a second.
"No. I won't believe it…"
Ryan stood there, eyes flitting between his father and the man before him. He looked into Montgomery eyes, eyes that seemed strangely familiar, but with the blue almost swallowed by his dilated pupils. The man was mad, or suffering.
Suffering, Ryan thought. That's not madness, that's pain. In a single moment, Ryan's terror was replaced by an odd calm, and even (dare he believe it) sympathy. I have gazed into the abyss, and the abyss has gazed into me. Ryan reached up, gently laying his fingers across the side of the blade. The steel was cool to his touch.
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words that he spoke hardly felt like his own. It was as if someone were speaking through him. The voice that spoke was deep, wise. "He who fights with monsters, dear Monty, should see to it that in the process he himself does not become a monster."
Burns froze, jaw dropping slightly. "What… what did you say?"
"You know that quote." Ryan closed his eyes:
"Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade
and yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
Ryan opened his hazel eyes, expression tranquil. "You won't hurt me, Monty."
Burns' hand was trembling. The sword tip jiggled perilously close to Ryan's arteries.
Ryan reached up, softly sandwiching the blade between his palms, and held it still.
It matters not how straight the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll
Ryan gently guided the tip of the blade down, away from his neck and chest.
Burns met his eyes, and uttered the final two lines.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
"Invictus," Burns said quietly, after a moment's pause. "One of the only poems we could ever agree upon." The sword clattered to the ground, as Burns stumbled forward.
Ryan caught him by the shoulders, and held him still. "It's one of my favorite poems too," he whispered.
Burns looked away, but Ryan could imagine he saw a faint hint of a smile on the old man's gaunt face.
Waylon stood, hand hovering above his gun, watching the scene unfold before him. He couldn't make out all the words. It was as if the everything were happening in slow motion. Burns, speaking to Ryan; Ryan replying delicately.
As Ryan guided the sword away, Waylon's hand relaxed and lowered.
What had he intended to do, anyhow? Shoot either one of them? He couldn't have. Two men that he loved, both in completely different ways. He closed his eyes and gave a brief prayer to God, thankful for the choice he hadn't needed to make.
Whatever spell that had possessed Monty Burns these past long days seemed well and truly broken. He rebuttoned his blazer, and stepped forward. He took Ryan by the shoulder, pulled his son against his chest, then reached out an arm for Monty Burns.
The old man hesitated a moment.
"Waylon," he said, expression pensive, "it's true this, what your mother always said: I am nothing but a monster."
"No, Monty," Waylon replied, not lowering his hand. "You are but a man."
"I came back from Europe, you know," Burns began, looking around the attic. "To Belledouleur. I'd sent my grandfather a letter. He never replied. I felt his a reticence an expression of disapproval. A deliberate act of provocation." He guided Waylon and Ryan into the main part of the attic.
They followed, dutifully.
"How could I have known it was no such thing?" Burns' voice had taken a keening edge to it. He gestured to the long desk and an empty chair. "When I returned, I found his fields managed in much the way they'd always been, the sharecroppers tending to the labor and harvest, carrying on in their own affairs. Of course they were loath to see me, and fled my presence as soon as I rode down the avenue, but I digress."
Burns turned towards Waylon. "Do you know what I found here?"
Waylon shook his head.
"My grandfather, or Father if you are so inclined. Lifeless at his work bench." Burns laid a hand on the chair. "He'd clearly been dead for some time. His skin was dry, taut. Stretched hard as old leather. Every last drop of moisture in his body broiled away in the attic heat."
Burns hung his head. "I took him out. By hand, I dug his grave. I labored from sun up to sun down, before finally laying him to rest under the stone you see there, by the entrance. No one assisted, no one dared offer. In all that, the sum total of his life reduced to a mummified corpse and a young man who suddenly found himself without a family or a home. Knowing nothing else, I left Belledouleur, and returned to Europe. I never intended to come back to the states." He traced his fingers over the brittle velvet. "Life has a way of disregarding plans of mankind."
Waylon reached for Burns' hand, but it was Ryan, of all people, who grasped the old man's fingers.
"I know how that feels," Ryan replied, giving Burns' hand a squeeze.
Burns, surprisingly, didn't pull his hand away.
"It hurts finding yourself alone."
"Why are you being sympathetic to me, boy?"
Ryan shrugged. "It just seems like the right thing to do." He tilted his head towards the roof. "What is that sound?" he asked. Above them came a faint patter, as if hundreds of tiny animals were running about above them.
"Rain," replied Waylon, glancing out the window. "It looks like that storm's finally arrived."
As if in reply the house gave a great shudder, nearly knocking them off their feet.
Burns gestured to the lands behind the house. "The river's swallowed everything back there, oxbowed in, and undercut the foundations. The basement's gone, flooded out. The stones are sinking."
"… And the water's rising," added Ryan. He glanced about, once again regarding them with the eyes of a young boy.
Waylon put his hands on Burns' and Ryan respectively. "We should go now." He guided them both towards the stairs.
"What about Belledouleur?" Ryan asked as they descended the stairs and made their way to the front door.
As if in response, the house gave a shuddering groan, interspaced with a bone-splitting snap.
Burns glanced towards the back of the house, at the deep crack that had just appeared through the fireplace behind them. "It doesn't matter now," he replied hollowly as the building shifted. Bolts of lightning stabbed through the sky, followed by the echo of thunder. "This place will tear itself apart around us if we don't go. Let devil and swamp take it all."