Dr. Hibbert wailed in pain as Lisa's fangs found their target, plunging deep into the flesh between his neck and shoulder. She clung to him like a leech as he swiped with his arms to knock her away, shaking blood in all directions. Marge, overwhelmed with terror, seized the blunt object nearest her—a broom—and struck Lisa repeatedly with the business end.
In the next room over, Bart was absorbed in a game of Kill Zombie Kill when Hibbert's screams and Lisa's triumphant squeals caught his attention. After saving the game state, he rushed toward the sound of the noise, only to discover a scene even more blood-soaked than the one on his computer screen.
"Lisa!" he cried out. "I thought you didn't like blood!"
"Bart, do something!" yelled Marge, her attempts to pry Lisa from Hibbert's neck with a broom proving futile.
"I'm on it!" said Bart. In seemingly no time at all he reappeared, slingshot in hand, and sent a cherry bomb hurtling at his sister. The projectile hit her between the eyes, throwing her backwards against a crimson-stained wall.
"Aw, man," Bart groaned. "It was supposed to explode on impact."
Marge, seeing the twin gashes in Dr. Hibbert's skin, fumbled for a sheet to plug up the blood that poured from them. "Heh heh heh," laughed the doctor, delirious and oblivious to the world. "Heh heh heh…heh heh heh…"
When Lisa looked down at the blood that covered her dress, hands, and lips, the horror she felt was equal to the thrill. "Oh my God, what did I just do?" she cried, tormented by shame.
"My sister's a vampire," said Bart, walking closer to her. "Cool! Does that mean I'm a vampire too?"
"Stay back!" said Lisa, lamplight reflecting off her fangs as she recoiled from the boy. "I'm out of control!"
"Bart, call a doctor!" Marge barked at her son.
"I'm…a doctor," Hibbert pushed out of his lungs just before losing consciousness.
With Bart away in search of a telephone with no blood on it, Lisa searched desperately for a route of escape, thinking, Got to get away from my family…got to find Vladimir!
When she motioned at the window and made it open with nothing but the power of her mind, it felt as natural as any natural thing she had ever done. She then flew between the curtains and lowered herself to the yard below, thinking nothing of it. Which way is Vladimir's apartment? she asked herself. If I can remember what it looks like, maybe I can spot it from the sky.
In the dim light she caught a glimpse of Ned Flanders walking by. He stopped, gawked at her pale face and the blood that decorated it, and went into a paroxysm of righteous horror. "EVIL!" he exclaimed, and drew from his back pocket a wooden crucifix about ten inches high.
Lisa stared incredulously at him. "Is that the best you can do, Mr. Flanders?"
"The power of Christ compels you!" ranted Ned, his trembling, white knuckles wrapped around the object of superstition.
"I wish," said the girl flatly.
By the time Flanders had pulled from his other pocket a crucifix twice the size of the first, she had already stolen away.
To be continued