Bart fell into a fitful bout of nightmares that night, plagued by the worst terror possible: disturbing visages of his old elementary school. He sat frozen at his desk near the back of the classroom, eyes forward, glued to the blackboard. Its surface was shimmering with incomprehensible symbols that shifted to and fro. Occasionally, they would change shapes or revert to their original position. He squinted, trying to make sense of this dance. An action that caused a piercing headache to shatter all sense, and Bart's breath fled from his lungs. He wheezed, digging his nails into his old desk.
Something somewhere was watching him. It was nearby. Eyes bore into the back of his skull. A long shadow fell across the desk, but just as Bart turned to see his tormentor, he jolted awake. With blurry vision, he swallowed a lump in his throat and tried to collect himself.
This movement caused Terri to murmur softly. Her arm was wrapped loosely around his waist and since she slept like a woman afflicted by wasting disease, it was easy for Bart to wriggle free. Although he was not prepared to leave her and allowed himself to hold her hand for a few minutes. Thinking back to elementary school again, this time he cracked a faint smile. He would take her teasing and not-so-subtle attempts at flirtation over some shadowy monster from beyond time any day.
With that thought in mind, Bart sighed and reached for the bag containing his change of clothes. Streams of bluish light filtered through the slit windows of the basement while he swapped his mechanic's jumpsuit for a ragged pair of Sunday jeans that had not seen the inside of a church for a decade. Then came the long sleeve white shirt he often preferred on the chillier days, followed by the most important layer, an equally worn carmine red tee with a crude outline of his face with a speech bubble that eloquently read, eat pant.
It was the product of a baked night of artistic passion and a can of spray paint. Lastly, he slipped on his purple chucks and took a second to retie them. They had been a Christmas gift from Terri, who had taken pity on his old sneakers since he had a habit of wearing shoes until well past threadbare. But before he could stand, he felt Terri bite down on his forearm and begin to chew. "Mm." She uttered, still asleep.
"Hey now. I need that." Bart protested quietly.
"Mhm." The chewing continued unabated. A struggle ensued as he tried to free himself from his new entrapment.
"Dude, why are you so strong?" Bart asked, pulling against her incredible jaw strength. He stopped resisting to remark. "Not complaining, by the way. I like a girl who knows how to use her mouth." In his head was how useful Terri could be at opening a pesky jar of pickles. Those teeth could be quite a vice under the right circumstances.
"Mhmm." Terri mutter and finally released him. She rolled over on her side. Free at last, Bart gave her a gentle peck on the cheek, grabbed his backpack then sprinted upstairs.
Outside, a light drizzle began to fall as an all-consuming fog was creeping through town. Still in costume, Nelson sat out on the porch with a cigarette between his fingers. Upon hearing the door open, he glanced up. "Good mornin', sunshine."
"What's so good about it…?" Bart grumbled in response.
An exaggerated yawn left Nelson's mouth as he stretched his arms. "Well, I slept great. Gotta get me one of them chairs." He stood up, scratching the back of his head. "Need a ride, or you walking?"
Bart held his hand out into the rain, letting the cool water splash against his knuckles. "Actually, could you drop me off at La Maison Derrière?" he asked. They had a few hours before class, and he didn't really want to loiter at the arcade that long.
"Bart! What would Terri think!?" Nelson exclaimed, feigning shock at the prospect of visiting a burlesque house so early in the morning. He laughed, nudging the other boy's arm. "She ain't cutting it?"
"It's not like that, man. Boss likes the breakfast, and I can use their shower."
Nelson raised a finger, about to ask about using the Mackleberry's shower, only to decide it was better not to. He nodded. "Aight, but you better not skip. Cause I ain't covering you from Dr. Headcase."
The old burlesque house was a strange building; rather striking due to its gothic appearance. Purple siding along the house, and tall iron gates with two gargoyles statues looming above. The statues' wrinkled faces were contorted into expressions of horror unimaginable. It's a wonder how they did not scare off patrons.
Bart buzzed the intercom, waving goodbye to Nelson as his car puttered down the street. He was promptly let inside, greeted by soft piano music that emanated from the showroom, though it was far too early for a show. He passed the empty dance hall towards the back of the building, to a private room near the kitchen.
He knocked twice and opened the door, promptly greeted by a cloud of smoke. He waved the thick smog away, coughing. There, seated in a booth alone, was his boss, mentor, patron, and surrogate father Don Marion Anthony D'Amico, commonly known by his nickname, Fat Tony. An Italian American mobster, with steel gray hair and deep bags under his beady eyes. A life of criminality meant he rarely slept easily. Like always, his suit jacket was undone, in order to allow his immense stomach to breathe freely. While not a kind man, he was a fair man who preferred to avoid violence when possible.
There were no windows in the cramped quarters; the only light was four glowing orange lamps circled above their heads, stopping at the entrance. An ornate white doily covered the surface of the table like a spiderweb, formed into the shape of wheat grains. On top of that was an empty bottle of red wine, a fresh pot of coffee, and a bowl filled to the brim with sunflower shells. Enough cigarettes were snuffed out in the ashtray to suggest a busy night of discussing legitimate business in the company of associates and beautiful women.
Fat Tony peeked over the edge of the newspaper. Upon seeing his protégé, he smiled warmly. "Ah, Bart. You are early today." The boy had awakened a paternal streak in the aged mobster, who had no legitimate children of his own.
Bart pulled up a chair from near the door and sat at the head of the table. "You know I can't pass up Belle's Eggs Benedict, Marion." He poured himself a cup of coffee using the hot kettle sitting in the center of the table, and unlike last night, dumped three packets of sugar into the brown bean water. "Win anything at the races?"
Fat Tony put down the newspaper. "Unfortunately, no. Johnny forgot to give the right medicine to number seven." He took a puff of the cigar dangling from the right side of his mouth. "I trust you had an enjoyable Halloween."
Opting to leave out any mention of the succubus, Bart took a sip. "Damn straight. Terri and I ate two whole bags of gummy worms." He got comfortable, leaning slightly forward. "Got something for me? I saw on the news that Chief Lou went through with raiding the laundry mat."
"Yes, that was inconvenient… It is most unfortunate he was serious about reforming the police into something respectable," His boss said, reaching into his coat pocket. His gold rings clinked against each other as he revealed a clip of rolled one-hundred-dollar bills. "Nothing to worry about, Our Irish business partners in Shelbyville bought the whole stock in bulk without question." He methodically counted out each bill. He paused, looking up. "Consider this, thanks, for the warning."
Three one hundred-dollar bills were tossed over. Bart let the money sit while taking another sip of coffee. "Huh. I didn't have them pegged as the type to wear hot pants."
Fat Tony shrugged, still counting out the money. "Me either. Maybe with the troubles dying down in their home country, they want to branch out into less… explosive products." He stuck five hundred dollars into his pocket again. "Enough about business. How is Terri doing? Your last performance had Louie in tears." It had been a stunning production of the Shakespearean classic Romeo and Juliet; even the normally harsh critics of the Springfield Shopper acknowledged the talent of the dancers.
"She's fine. I got her to start writing poetry again," Bart answered, cracking a faint smile. "Trust me, it's pretty terrifying stuff." While he didn't have much of an attention span, he could always appreciate her love for the macabre. Especially when the gruesome descriptions proved entertaining to read.
Fat Tony removed the cigar from his mouth, holding it. "A tortured soul, is she?" He chortled thoughtfully. "Take her on a road trip, then. Gypsies are good people, no different from us. But that wagon isn't just supposed to be an ugly lawn ornament." Behind the Mackleberry manor was an ornately decorated wagon, which was normally concealed from prying eyes with a tarp. Bart mostly knew its culturally significant interior as a private place to make out. Returning to the cigar, Fat Tony took another pull, thinking aloud. "Never understood why this town has been so hard on them. Sweet bunch of dames, keep to themselves… guess stereotypes are hard to escape."
Bart peered into his coffee, letting the steam tickle his nose. He was about to object to the usage of the term Gypsy, having listened to more than one rant from Sherri about how the term was incorrect and racially offensive, but he decided not to. His boss was well aware of how living up to stereotype affected someone. "Maybe we should take a vacation. She has mentioned wanting to visit some of her extended family over in Providence." He was curious to find out what a community of twins was like.
"Why don't ya? Once you graduate, of course," Fat Tony suggested almost respectfully. "Take a year off from everything." He sighed wistfully. "To be young and in love again." He tossed the rest of the cash onto the pile. "Treat her to something nice‒jewelry, or…" He waved his hand vaguely. "Whatever the girls like nowadays."
Amazed by the generosity, Bart anxiously took the money. It was about eight hundred dollars in total, a staggering amount for a kid who grew up in a household slowly slipping out of the middle class. "You sure, Marion? I am fine waiting until there is something to move." Crime did, in fact, pay, and well.
"Consider it a wedding gift. For Terri's sake, I am asking you to take a step back for a while. Let things cool," Fat Tony said, picking up the newspaper again. "You know how it is‒got to keep everything moving for the sake of… legality."
"Yes, sir!" Bart proclaimed loudly, pocketing the cash without question. His breakfast was brought: two poached eggs laid atop a slice of tomato, with melted cheddar on top and Hollandaise sauce drizzled across the whole dish. All complimented by a side of glistening bacon.
As he scarfed down his food, Fat Tony cut himself a fresh cigar, returning to his reading. Noise could be heard outside the private room as the showgirls swapped shifts. Keeping his eyes fixed on an article related to an ongoing trial, he spoke, "It's a little early, but I do hope you will join me for Thanksgiving. I'll be making ricotta manicotti like mama used to." The paper crinkled as he turned the page. "Obviously your friends are welcome to come… as long as they don't ask too many questions about our legitimate business."
With a mouthful of egg, Bart made a noise. "Yuh?" Swallowing he washed it down quickly. "Yeah, I'll be there. Should I wear a suit?"
An innocent question that caused Fat Tony to pause his reading, looking across the table. "Come on. Whaddaya take me for? Wear what is comfortable." Remembering something else, he put down the newspaper. "Oh, and before I forget. Legs took that letter you found in your mailbox to our guy."
"Any luck?" Bart asked. About a year prior, each member of the Springfield Investigative Society started to receive strange envelopes in the mail containing anything from a highlighted passage in a magazine to a handwritten note telling the group where to look next. Each and every time they were simply signed H.
"Afraid not. Whoever wrote it was good at making sure it was clean," Fat Tony explained, studying Bart's face. "They are left handed, though." He abruptly shut the paper, putting both hands together on the table. "You and your friends aren't in any kind of trouble, are you? Is this H making threats?"
Quickly shaking his head, Bart swallowed the entire egg and tomato in one gulp. "Nuh-uh. Nothing like that. He's just…" He paused, trying to decide on a convincing lie rather than admitting his friends investigated ghouls for a living. "Most likely playing a prank. I figure it's some asshole from school."
Fat Tony was unconvinced, eyeballing the boy. However, he relented. "Very well. If you get into any trouble, please let me know."
Bart breathed a sigh of relief and finished his meal before running upstairs. He passed the changing rooms, which might've been titillating if he felt the need to peep, narrowly darting into one of the bathrooms. He hopped into the brass shower, rinsing off the night before with the soaps provided by the establishment. Once dressed again, he brushed his teeth, applied deodorant, and took his sweet time styling his hair. So much, in fact, that when he stepped out again, there was a long line of women waiting impatiently. Bart gave a salute and a sheepish smile. "My bad, ladies." He made a hasty exit, to duck being scolded by the stern madam of the house.
A polished, waxed, and otherwise immaculate black Lincoln town car was idling. Its driver, Legs, was waiting, picking his teeth with a toothpick. A serious made man, his slicked-back brown hair and frown made him an intimidating character, to say the least. He was the type to always follow orders. He never objected to Fat Tony taking Bart under his wing. So when the boy reached the car, Legs spoke as the door opened. "Boss told me to give you a ride to school."
A pistol's hilt was visible underneath his arm, so Bart made sure to be dropped off a block away, reassuring Legs he could handle a short walk. Fat Tony could be oddly protective when he felt like it.
Springfield High was an impressive building, owing to its generous state budget. The building was two stories high, composed of dark brown wood and bricks to match, as well as a basement floor where many elective courses were held. Students passed between a pair of tan pillars to enter the hallowed halls, of which their fairly competitive band and football team earned the school a positive reputation. Behind the main building were the sports field and an allegedly new theatre building. The parking lot stretched in front of the school doors, far enough that only the confident or lazy parked at the very edge, dooming many students to tardy slips. It didn't take long for Bart to find Nelson's car parked in the boonies, as he really just needed to follow the blaring of thrash metal. He readjusted his backpack over his shoulder, noticing a growing crowd of students forming nearby.
Nelson was half-out his window to catch a glimpse of the spectacle himself. Bart glanced at him, noticing he'd changed into his preferred jean vest with a cheap GWAR shirt underneath, and a pair of cargo pants he'd suspected had been picked from the guy's dirty laundry pile. "Ya better stop them," Nelson said without looking at him.
"Who?"
"Jess. She got into it with some new girl for some damn reason," Nelson explained, making approximately zero moves to leave the safety of his vehicle.
Bart smirked, leaning an arm on the roof of the car. "That it? You don't wanna watch a chick fight?" There was never a dull moment being friends with the meanest girls in the senior class.
"Chick fight? Sure," Nelson said, turning his music down. He pointed in the general direction and shuddered. "But those three? Hell no. They go for the eyes." That was an understatement; the last time someone pissed them off, Jessica shaved a swear word into some unfortunate guy's hair, getting him suspended.
Bart could understand the hesitation—losing a limb was a high price for anyone to pay. He tapped the roof. "Well, if they kill me, that means it's down to you in our little clam jam."
Nelson went pale, pulling himself out through the window. "Nuh-uh. You don't get to die without me." They pushed through the crowd of onlookers, where Jessica was standing slightly in front of Sherri and Terri. The trio was embroiled in an argument with an oddly dressed girl.
Her dark hair was tied up in a short ponytail atop her head with a pink bow, and she was wearing a dark purple T-shirt sporting a cartoon skull of a cat—something the twins were quick to rebuke. "And purple is our color. Get lost, poser." A hypocritical assertion; besides their hair, neither Mackleberry wore much purple anymore. They looked more like a checkerboard, with Sherri prioritizing comfort in a snug, white turtleneck, midnight blue yoga pants, and a pair of beige Uggs. Terri, meanwhile, either wore the whole rainbow or funeral garb. There was no in-between. Today was a rare case as she was wearing a mixture of both: a one-shoulder black shirt revealing a red bra strap, teal skinny jeans, and a studded belt. As far as Bart was concerned, it was cool how she turned her mania into a fashion statement.
He pushed past Lewis and Richard, entering the circle. "Ladies, ladies, please." Bart stepped between the four girls. "There's no reason to come to blows."
Nelson face-palmed with a groan at this terrible attempt at diffusing the situation. Jessica was gripping her pink skateboard in matching manicured claws, projecting a frightfully chilling demeanor. When contrasted with the twins, she looked far less put together. Though that was probably because she simply was wearing less fabric than everyone else. An olive green army jacket hung loose on her frame, unzipped, of course, putting her stomach on full display. Coupled with a black sports bra, she was just asking to be told to go home and change. Especially regarding her tight skinny jeans that left little to the imagination. Normally to side-step the School's dress code, Jessica would zip her coat up when near any faculty that might care. Frustrated by Bart's intervention, she bit back at him. "Fuck off. This bitch started it."
"Don't hate me for telling the truth. Your footwork is sloppy, and that belly button ring is trashy," was the equally icy retort from the new girl. She gripped the white binder in her arm like she wanted to throw it. He noticed it was covered in stickers, a few of them spelling out the name 'Nikki.' "So get lost, psycho."
Jessica's pride had been wounded, and it was only a matter of time before things got ugly. Bart held a hand toward her, keeping her back. "Let it go, Jess," he said, before adding quietly, "C'mon. He's watching."
He jerked his head toward the faculty parking near the entrance, where an unmistakable 1975 onyx Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham was idling. Bart thought for a moment that, even this far away, he could see Dr. Pyror's gaze in the side-view mirror, watching them. The man always had a way of being present if any of the freaks let their guard down like he was waiting for them to slip up.
"Ugh, whatever," Jessica muttered, turning to leave. She froze, though, when Nikki clucked like a chicken. "Oh… you did not—"
It took the combined efforts of Bart, Nelson, Sherri, and Terri to stop Jessica from committing a crime right then and there. Her girlfriend tugged on her by the waist, pleading, "Babe, please! This one isn't worth it!"
The rest of their classmates, disappointed no fight was going to break out, dispersed. However, it didn't seem Nikki was ready to drop it either. "Whenever you wanna go, freak! Just make sure to get your shots beforehand."
Her quip finally got a rise from Terri, who let go of her friend to step forward. She cracked her knuckles for emphasis. "How about I knock you out right now?" There was a bright pink skateboard poking up from this new girl's backpack. "Snrk. You really are a poser."
"Am not."
"Are too."
Sherri pointed to the pink bow. "So are! Those were our thing before it was cool."
Nikki crossed her arms, wearing a disgusted scowl. "You talk a big game, but…" She jerked her head at the skateboard in Jessica's hands. "I could mop the floor with any of you."
This of all things wounded Bart's ego, and he put a hand on his chest, offended. "Well, that would be a lie, considering I'm the best on this campus." He shrugged. "Them's the rules, I'm afraid."
"Don't bother humoring this one, Bart," Jessica interrupted as Sherri dug her heels into the pavement in order to hold her girlfriend in place. Didn't stop the raging girl from hocking a glob of spit right into the center of Nikki's shirt. "Aww, sorry. Might wanna go home and get changed."
Nikki calmly wiped away the spit, disgusted. Though her eyes remained focused on Bart, the black holes of her pupils boring into him. "You freaks better watch your back. I'll make you regret this." She stormed off, disappearing through the front doors.
Nelson, displaying some actual common sense in this case, spoke up. "At least the demons aren't making it hard to find them." He had the thought in the back of his mind when the argument broke out.
"Seems too obvious. We're going to need some evidence," Sherri said, airing on the side of rationality. She wormed her finger into Jessica's belly button ring. "Good thing she's hardly subtle. Should be easy to find out."
Jessica could not care less about the potential of another demon finding them already. She put a hand over Sherri's. "Let's blow up her locker."
Taking the possibility seriously, Terri remembered something and tugged at Bart's sleeve, causing him to look over. "Here. This might help you stay safe."
She pushed something cold and metallic into his palm. He held it up, studying it. "What is this?" At a glance, it was a jagged pentagram with an eye at its center. It had an odd effect, as if its gaze followed him as he tilted the object in his hand. "Metal…"
"Dey says that the women of our family used to wear it for protection," Terri explained, sounding unconvinced. It was not always easy to differentiate fairytales and fiction in the Mackleberry household. "At best, it might make you invisible. At worst, it won't do anything."
Nelson crossed his arms. "Hold on, now! Why does Bart get one and not me?"
"Cause," Jessica said, slapping his back hard enough that it made him flinch. "You're too ugly. Bart's the demon eye candy here." She gave a finger gun toward Bart and clicked her tongue. He reciprocated the gesture.
Nelson opened his mouth to protest. As he did, Bart gingerly slid the medallion underneath his shirt. "Hey, thanks, doll. I'll try anything to avoid getting munched."
Terri's brow furrowed as she accepted the arm around her shoulder. "Doll? What the hell am I, a fifties showgirl?"
"You could be," Bart laughed as the group headed toward the entrance. "We could incorporate some kicks into our routine." When she groaned, he offered. "How about Chesty LaRue? You could grow into it."
The innuendo not lost on her, Terri pinched his side, causing him to dance away. "No. I already have a name!" She couldn't stop herself from smiling at the tasteless joke. "Seriously. At least call me something normal. Like 'sugar tits.'"
Stopping outside of his first class, Bart gasped. "I got it! Booby Mcbooberry." Evidently proud of this nickname, he hastily ducked into English Composition I to avoid another barrage of pinching. It didn't stop her from giving pursuit as she shoved past a pair of bug-eyed underclassmen, who scrambled to avoid the ire of seniors.
Instead of punishing his insolence further, she sat on his desk as he dropped his bag down on the floor. Fixing her bead bracelets, Terri noticed his sketchpad hanging precariously from the backpack's front pocket. "Hey, let me see your progress."
He complied, handing over the spiral-bound sketchbook. She flipped through it, stopping on a page near the end of the book. It was a Vanitas-style piece of herself, draped in a Gothic dress, holding a skull in her lap and a quill in her free hand, leaning against a writing desk. An hourglass was in view, below a clock. Holding it up, she grinned. "God, that looks amazing! Have you shown Coach Krupt yet?"
"Yeah, he approved it," Bart answered, searching for his last good pencil that had buried itself somewhere in the trash of his bag. "I'm lucky to have such a patient muse."
"Charmer," Terri said as more students filed into the room. She reached forward, stroking the top of his hair. It was still damp, so she asked, "How was Marion?"
"Same ol', same old. He looks forward to our next performance," Bart answered coolly. He still had the money burning a hole in his pocket, but he wanted to keep it a secret until they were at the mall later. It'd be a nice surprise. "Speaking of which…" Finding the well-chewed pencil, he drummed it against her leg. "Do you think Mrs. Krupskaya was serious about us dancing lead?"
Tryouts for their Christmas production of the Nutcracker were about to start, and their ballet teacher had been insistent she expected them to be there. Terri put down the sketchbook. "Babe, she calls you her 'little Baryshnikov' and said I 'possessed the spirit of Anastasia Abramova.'" He had no idea who those people were, and his blank stare caused her to sigh. "Yes. No doubt she was serious."
"Well… Do you want to?"
"Um, hell yeah I do. Dancing is our ticket out of here."
He could see the excitement in her eyes and nod. "Alright, let's do it." The bell rang, and his American Literature teacher walked inside. Having graduated with a doctorate from the prestigious Miskatonic University, the middle-aged woman was far more qualified to be an ivy league professor than wrangling a bunch of sarcastic freshmen‒and, well, Bart. With shoulder-length violet hair, eggshell complexion, and teal cat-eyed spectacles, Jerri Mackleberry stuck out like a sore thumb among Springfield's less-educated yokels.
She took off her matching raincoat, revealing a purple sweater dress underneath, then picked up a nub of chalk from the try on the edge of the blackboard. With smooth strokes, and beautiful cursive she wrote, The Premature Burial. Finished, Jerri turned back to her class, picking up a notebook from her desk. Meticulously calling role, stopping when she saw her daughter. "Shéyo class, now. Bart has enough trouble paying attention without you laying on top of him."
Terri hopped to her feet, grabbing her notebook. "Aw, but Dey! You guys are talking about Poe today!"
"Get," Jerri responded, pointing her pen toward the doorway; "you are going to be tardy for History." Complying with a giggle, Terri left, and class started.
The school day crawled on at a snail's pace. Eventually, lunchtime came, but tragically, for the freaks, their schedules did not line up perfectly. Sherri and Jessica were left stranded by their clique, surrounded by hordes of underclassmen. To avoid getting stuck sitting in the crowded lunchroom next to the nerds or any cat-calling assholes, they liked to eat underneath the bleachers at the sports field. Another day, another lunch bell, and Sherri waited by the door as she tried to avoid the flood of students headed for the cafeteria. She waited… and waited… The hallway thinned out, with everyone crowding for a lunch table.
Catching the sight of Janey wearing her goofy hall monitor badge, Sherri went ahead and slipped outside. It was no longer raining, but the ground was still damp. She found a dry spot to sit on the concrete base of the bleachers. Leaning against the cool metal pole, she opened her bagged lunch of whatever snacks she could grab before Nelson drove them to school. Here, she managed an apple, a ham and cheese sandwich, and grape juice.
Believing she was in for a lonely lunch, Sherri reached into her purse, grabbing a cigarillo. She did a quick check of each corner to make sure no teachers were making their rounds. Before she lit it, though, she heard Jessica's voice behind her. "Nasty habit, love."
She kicked her foot against the concrete as Sherri met her with a squint. "You're one to talk." She gave Jessica a pout. "I thought I was gonna be alone."
"I'd never dream of leaving you alone," Jessica cooed sweetly as she plopped down next to her girlfriend. Although given the tumultuous nature of their relationship, such a distinction was complicated.
She gave Sherri an affectionate kiss on the cheek, earning an adorable giggle in response. In the distraction, she nimbly snatched the cigarillo from the other girl's hand. "Pretty girls like you shouldn't be smoking." Before Sherri could realize what had happened, Jessica stuck it in her mouth and gave Sherri an expectant look. "Well? Light me up."
Sherri stared in surprise for a moment before frowning. Begrudgingly, she held up a lighter, orange flame flickering between them. "No fair…" Huffing, she lit the tip. "You know I can't resist mean girls."
"Mhmm. I know," Jessica said as she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the refreshing burn of rich tobacco. A tickle in her throat made her cough a few times. "See? It'll kill you."
"But you make it look so cool," Sherri cooed, before laughing and returning to her sandwich. She leaned her head against the other girl's as she took a bite. "How did the algebra test go?"
"Easy," Jessica said, reaching into her left pocket and delicately moving the smoke to the other side of her mouth. She revealed the crumpled test in question and tossed it onto the dirt. A red sixty-five was circled near her name. "Totally aced it."
Sherri grunted, picking it out of the muck. "Nice… What does this make your GPA? 1.6?"
Jessica responded by blowing a cloud of smoke straight into her girlfriend's pale face, causing the periwinkle-haired girl to grimace. "Come on, Sher. Give me some credit. It's a 2.1 now."
Waving away the smoke, Sherri smirked. "Moving on up. Hehe, a few more months and I bet you can make it a nice muscular 1.9." Jessica was actually brilliant, it was no secret, but she actively worked to fail her courses.
"Hah! I wish. I am totally gonna flunk home-ec," Jessica said, stealing a slice of mayo-covered bacon. She popped the piece into her mouth, chewing noisily. "Mr. Dindel has it in for me, I swear."
"Well, you did tell him you didn't have to cook 'cause a boy would do anything to see tits," Sherri mused, having had the pleasure of watching from the hall. "Not to mention telling him his Hawaiian shirt made him look gay."
Jessica looked up at the rusting bleachers above their heads, trying to remember the event. "Did I…? That doesn't sound right. I am the perfect minister's daughter."
Sherri rolled her eyes, always amazed that the defense worked nine times out of ten. "Uh-huh. Does that make me Jezebel, leading you astray?"
"Uh, of course it does. You incorrigible harlot." Jessica nudged playfully, laughing.
"Incorrigible, huh?" Sherri placed a hand on her chest. She feigned ignorance. "And can you define that for me?"
Jessica didn't know and instead brought her leg up, running a finger down her thigh. "How about you teach me sometime… Jezebel?"
Sherri felt her cheeks flush, but only temporarily. Regaining her composure, she shoved her middle finger right into Jessica's face. "Guess I'll have to. You need to learn some manners."
"Oooh. You know how I feel about that finger," Jessica teased, sticking her tongue out playfully as she brought her foot down. She traced down Sherri's arm, causing the light hairs to stand up straight. "Sorry, love. I didn't mean to neglect you." She leaned over, whispering, "I'll make it up to you when we go see Space Mutants VIII."
Sherri giggled and nudged her off to return to her meal. "I am going to hold you to that, monishi. At least for your sake, Space Mutants has good music."
Satisfied by her reaction, Jessica took another drag. She let Sherri finish her lunch before speaking up again. "So… you wanna see why I was late?"
"I don't know. Do I?"
Jessica stood, redoing her ponytail in a quick move. She offered an arm. "Totally. It's gonna be a show."
Sherri crumpled up her brown bag and picked up her purse. "Uh-oh." Linking arms, they went back inside, heading for a row of lockers on the first floor. As they rounded a corner, the sound of spring firing was heard, and both girls arrived just in time to watch Nikki get hit in the face with half a dozen eggs.
The complete dozen followed, causing her to fall flat on her butt, yolk dripping down her yellow skin. Those who witnessed the display belted out laughing, and Jessica cackled. "It worked! Bart is a friggin' genius!"
Sherri's jaw dropped at the display. Teachers followed the commotion and dispersed the crowd. Her teeth clacked shut as she watched Nikki blink—in a split second, the whites of her eyes vanished, and her pupils became slivers. A hiss escaped her lips, and a second later the girl vanished, escaping towards the nearest bathroom. Sherri gave Jessica a wide-eyed look. "Well… that settles that."
"Ha! She will think twice before getting in my face," Jessica crowed, proud that her cruel prank had exposed their new enemy so easily.
As the final bell of the day rang, the rest of the school hastily ran for the parking lot. The freaks, however, wordlessly headed for their usual after-school activity; a polite way to describe the mandatory group therapy they were subject to in order to graduate. The room was up on the second floor, room 206. Once upon a time, it had been an elective history classroom, until budget cuts resulted in the teacher being let go and the room being repurposed for the district psychiatrist, Dr. Pyror. If you asked the freaks, they would tell you he was the single most wretched, condescending man on Earth. His red-rimmed glasses, smug demeanor, and patchy suit may have given him an air of sophistication to strangers, but those who had the displeasure of his company for too long often found the self-aggrandizing man exhausting.
When the five arrived, they prepared for the barrage of invasive questions the doctor would throw at them. Nelson and Jessica set the uncomfortable plastic chairs in a semicircle, while Sherri drew the blinds, trying to escape any natural lighting. Bart was busy staring at the posters on the wall. "These are new," he commented, squinting one that depicted a basketball player dunking a ball into the net. The caption read: You miss every shot you don't take. He put a hand on his chin. "I'm feeling inspired already."
"And here I thought Dr. Jekyll preferred a more prison aesthetic," Terri said, sliding her books underneath her seat. The posters were a new and rather strange attempt at being relatable.
Opening a bag of chips from the vending machine, Nelson dropped a few into his mouth, crunching loudly. "Can't fucking wait to write a ten-page report on how I feel more motivated." When Jessica tried to pilfer some chips for herself, he jerked the bag away. "Hey! This is my dinner!"
"Mine too," Jessica responded, practically on top of him. "Come on, sharing is caring!"
A struggle ensued that eventually resulted in him giving her a single chip. Sherri took a sip from her plastic water bottle. "Later, we need to talk about Nikki."
"She gonna eat me?" Bart asked, sliding into the seat on the far right side of the semi-circle; "or is this cause you guys wasted her?"
Jessica laughed, proud of her handy work. Sherri fought off a smile herself. "I'm afraid so."
Bart leaned forward, putting his elbow on his knee. "Cool. Guess I'm gonna die."
"Haw-haw! You can't rest easy!" Nelson laughed cruelly. He twitched and blinked twice. "Shit, my bad dude. Force of habit."
Sherri frowned. "The sign should protect him. It's us I'm worried about."
"Then why are we waiting around? Let's confront her," Nelson said, as headstrong as he ever was. From experience, it was never worth waiting until a demon from another plane made the first move.
Terri rolled her eyes. "I want to die as much as the next person, but…" She shook her head. "Let's find out what this one is capable of first."
The sound of footsteps methodically tapping against the tile floor outside the room caused everyone to fall silent. With a breezy, upbeat humming, the door swung open, revealing Dr. Pyror carrying a cup of coffee. His once-vibrant blue hair was starting gray, and dark bags under his eyes suggested a chronic lack of sleep. Coupled with a long nose and a cruel permanent grin, he sometimes felt like a vulture rather than a counselor. He was wearing an orange suit jacket over a green sweater vest and blue slacks. Curiously, a white I.D. card was hanging from his neck, though it was turned toward his body. On its back was an outline of the Earth. "Good evening, Springfield's wonderful mistakes. I trust everyone had a pleasant Halloween."
He walked to the storage closet next to his desk, opened it, and fished through the file cabinet locked away inside until he found theirs. Murmurs went around the group until Jessica eventually spoke up. "We so did, Doc. It's such a shame we ran out of eggs before reaching your house."
Pyror gave an unsettling chuckle like he was trying to dislodge phlegm from his throat. "Come on, Miss Lovejoy, you used to be a convincing liar," he chided, having checked the news for police reports regarding any eggings. With a click of his tongue, he wagged a finger at her. "You're getting predictable."
"Here, let me try again," Jessica said, rising to the challenge. She crossed her legs, fishing out a stick of gum from her black skinny jeans. "We were conducting a witches' sabbath in the woods."
Pyror wheeled his desk chair into the center of the group. "Much more creative." He watched as four more sticks of artificially red cinnamon gum were passed around. In his hand were each of their folders, and in the other, a pen. "Your romantic adventures aside… Shall we begin?" He looked to his left. "Bart. How are things?"
Blowing a bubble, Bart shrugged. "I dunno. Found Choking Victim's LP at Suicide Notes, been listening to that."
"How about your family?" Dr. Pyror pressed, trying to get straight to the heart; "you are still going home, right?"
Shifting uncomfortably, Bart chose to look at his shoes to avoid the doctor's piercing gaze. "Not if I can help it."
A pen scratch caused him to wince, and the shrink moved on. Taking note that the twins were sitting so close their shoulders were touching, he said, "Terri."
She flinched. "Yeah?"
"Have you given any thought to what we discussed?"
Terri's eyes narrowed, and she pointed at the dyed section of her hair. "How about you get bent? It's attached to my head. I can do what I want."
"Eloquent as always," Pyror sneered, making another note in her file. "Since it's a natural colour, the school cannot make you change it, but I hope you understand how unprofessional that mess looks."
"Good," she retorted, rotating her rainbow bracelet. "I am a mess, so it fits."
Next up was her sister. Pyror peered at the twin and spoke, "Your grades are slipping in… Let's see here." He flipped the pages. "American history, Biology II, and… Physical education."
Sherri remained expressionless, resisting the urge to tell him exactly where she thought he could shove his stupid pen. "It's called having a life and not having a steady supply of Focusyn like Martin, or a serious case of narcissism like Lisa."
"You sure that's the reason? Not that you are distracted," Pyror mused, motioning to Jessica. "You two do like to cause trouble when together. Now I wonder where you managed to get a dozen eggs."
Jessica snickered mischievously. "Oh, you know. They were lying around."
Dr. Pyror tapped the back of the pen against the folder. "Yes, maybe from the cafeteria." He matched her smugness. "That is why I volunteered you both to serve detention cleaning the cafeteria after school for the rest of the month."
"You fiend!" Sherri proclaimed as Nelson snorted, amused by their fate.
He regretted it, though, when Pyror snapped at him. "Alright, Muntz. Since you are feeling talkative, your parole officer says you have been checking in regularly." He raised an eyebrow, studying the boy's file. "How is the sewing class at the church?"
Nelson froze, amazed he knew. Keeping up his tough guy persona, he shrugged. "What sewing class? I go to the Church for AA."
"Ah, right, of course," Pyror responded, pushing up his glasses. He continued to put them through the wringer until each freak was adequately drained. A toothy grin formed as the shrink lowered his voice. "Alright, everyone. I hate to do this, but I think it's time we talk about our mutual friend, Milworm—I mean, Milhouse."
No one made a move to speak, anxiously looking at each other. Bart broke the silence, rubbing his neck as he stared at the checkered floor tiles. "We filed a police report. He's gone."
Dr. Pyror was unconvinced, going back to the top file, in which he kept an abridged version of the report being referenced. "Yes, quite odd. Normally, a talented young man doesn't just vanish from the face of the earth."
He looked up, studying them, and Sherri leaned back into her chair. "I don't think anyone would call Milhouse talented."
"Yes, and we described exactly what took him," Nelson interjected.
Proceeding to read aloud, Dr. Pyror said the exact quote. "A rubbery, faceless creature with wings and hunched posture. It crashed through his window and took him into the sky." He looked up disdainfully. "…Psychoactive drugs were found underneath his bed, yet you two denied taking any."
Nelson and Bart had spent the night at the request of their increasingly paranoid friend, who was insistent something from a dream was going to take him. The two boys stumbled over an explanation, with Bart winning out, regurgitating an anti-drug talk from the year prior. "Users are losers, dude. If Milhouse was using, we didn't know."
Terri nudged him, whispering, "Grade-A save."
After some grumbling, Dr. Pyror accepted he was beaten by such a high-brow rebuttal. "Hmph. Yes, as you say, users are indeed losers…"
Impatiently, Jessica crossed her arms. "What is this about, Doc? The pigs have his journal, and the case is still open."
Pyror took off his glasses, massaging his eyelids. "It is my professional opinion that all of you were involved in his disappearance—and are covering for each other, most likely owing to a shared group trauma."
"Oh please, this isn't I know What You Did Last Summer," Sherri jeered, copying her twin's mannerisms as her eyes darted to the ceiling. "Milhouse was a rampant misogynist and a pathetic waste of skin. The only people who could tolerate his bullshit were these two, so I believe their story."
She gestured to Bart, then back to Nelson, who scratched the back of his head. "Thanks for the vote of confidence… I guess."
Checking his watch, Pyror sighed. "Right. Well, it would seem we are out of time." He stood, returning his chair to his desk, before locking their folders away inside the file cabinet as well. "I hope to see you all Monday." Without another word, he practically sprinted from the room, leaving the group alone.
When the door closed, Terri bolted for it and watched their tormentor leave. "He's gone…" She locked it quickly as the group set about unveiling the Springfield Investigative Society's amenities. Bart wheeled a whiteboard from the closet, along with an easel. He liked to paint their encounters as an outlet for his anxiety and quickly set to work on encapsulating Jenda from memory. It was a difficult task, considering he only had three colors to work with: orange, black, and yellow.
While he did so, Jessica stood nearby, peering from the window down into the parking lot. "Such a prick…" she muttered as their shrink got into his car. "Monday, I'm putting sugar in his gas tank."
While she plotted revenge, Sherri climbed onto Terri's shoulders and pushed the ceiling tile above. Inside were several boxes containing the previous cases they had investigated. There were also seven reels of Super 8 film. She slid over the box dated for the present year. "Got it."
She climbed down, and Terri popped her back. "There are chairs, y'know."
"Sure, but you're twenty seconds younger," Sherri explained frankly, pulling twin rank; "it's faster this way."
Terri bit her tongue to avoid saying something she might regret and walked to Bart, who was oblivious to the world as he chewed on the handle of his brush. After another minute of no progress, he groaned. "Ugh. I can't remember what she looked like."
This was news, and Nelson was the first to reply, "You know… I can't either." He looked at Sherri, whose face was scrunched as she struggled to recall the event. "Don't you dare tell me—"
"Looks like it," Jessica said, filling in the blanks. "But we remember Bart being attacked…"
Terri nodded quickly. "Yes, and that this Jenda was the perpetrator." She went for the box her sister had brought down and sorted through it. She was looking for a specific case file, vaguely recalling another example. "Memory-altering monsters are exceedingly rare."
"I'm pretty sure this is the first," Sherri added helpfully as Bart continued to stare at his white canvas. Then, as if released by an unseen force, his memory was unlocked and the nightmarish images came flooding through. The shape of the inhuman monster as it split down the middle, teeth and flesh melded into one uniform shape. A thing of impossibility, illogical composition masquerading as a person. His strokes were a flurry as he brought the nightmare to life, recreating the horrifying moments after its first charge. Abstract at first, he soon finished the horrific interpretation and lowered his brush. A wave of exhaustion hit him as his eyes finally focused again.
"There. Finished," he said, relaxing.
The entire act had taken nearly twenty minutes and intrigued the freaks who crowded closer to get a good look at this new piece. Nelson whistled. "Goddamn, that would be one hell of an album cover." He had been planning to use some of Bart's macabre artwork for a t-shirt design. At present, though, there was another concern; he reached into his vest, revealing a familiar style of sealed envelope. "Right, also… Found one of these on my porch."
"H. Works fast," Jessica muttered, taking it from him. She held onto it, looking at the group. "First– What is our plan for Nikki and these 'demon whores'?" She couldn't help but grin at Terri's apt description.
Returning to her seat, Sherri thought for a moment. "We need her to reveal herself."
"That should be easy. She clearly wanted us to challenge her," Terri said, unable to look away from the painting. She found herself unnerved by the haunting expression of great pain plastered on their enemy's face.
Bart put down his brush and pull himself from the picture's grasp. He turned her gently to face the group. "Ball is in our court, then. Who knows? Maybe skateboarding against a demon will be fun."
Sherri hesitated to bite at the nail of her index finger. "Right, 'cause it'd be that simple." Unable to come up with a better plan, she sighed. "Let's worry about H. first. We can save Nikki for later. For now, let's stick to old field trip rules. Stay with a buddy when possible—especially you, Bart."
He responded by wrapping an arm around Terri's waist. "I found this dweeb. She counts, right?"
"Dweeb? It's Miss Mcbooberry to you, mister," Terri said with a friendly pat on his shoulder.
They laughed, and Jessica, seeing the mood had shifted, tore open the new leak from H. Bart filled them in on what Fat Tony had told him that morning. Inside there was a trashy tabloid magazine, its cover proudly displaying a large-chested blonde woman pushing her yellow breasts up with soap suds streaming down her cleavage. Seeing this, Bart became deeply introspective. "Aha! I see, H. wants us to investigate Clubbb Sinnn."
Nelson craned his neck to get a better look. "Woof. Now there is a lady I wouldn't mind sharing the backseat with…"
The three girls grumbled. Jessica, touching a visible green tab attached to one of the pages, snatched the magazine. She flipped to it, and sure enough, an article was outlined in red marker. Clearing her throat, she read aloud, "Fisherman spots floating triangle in the sky."
"Crap. That doesn't sound like sexy women," Bart sighed dejectedly as he peered over her shoulder. "Huh… Catfish Lake. Why does that sound familiar?"
Jessica leaned her head back. "My parents own a lodge on the lake. They do marriage counseling every month." She snickered. "I believe your folks attend."
Curious, Sherri skimmed the rest of the blurb. "Says here UFO sightings have been getting more frequent. They're scaring off tourists."
"That place is pretty far out. At least a four-hour drive," Nelson said, hoping one of them would pitch in to pay for his gas. "Middle of nowhere, too."
"Since when has that stopped us?" Terri asked, hiding the magazine from her boyfriend, who was having trouble looking away. "Tomorrow is Saturday, and Monday can be a skip day."
Jessica liked the idea of a long weekend. "Hell, I was going to skip Tuesday, too. Let's call it a vacation."
"I'm down. Has to be better than watching my dad get drunk watching football," Bart said, ending his quest to get one last look at the woman on the cover.
Jessica checked the clock on the wall above the door. "Hmm. Then I need to get home, so I can… ask my parents if it's okay if we use the lodge."
She winked at Nelson, who understood her not-so-subtle implication. "Fair. So, say I pick you guys up at ten tomorrow. That cool?"
"Works for me," Sherri nodded.
"Bold of you to assume I'm gonna be awake," Bart answered, concealing his art piece in the closet again.
He returned, offering his hand, and Terri took it, saying, "Actually, Nelly, ten is fine. He'll be ready."
"I will?" Bart asked.
Terri smiled at him. "You're gonna teach me to skateboard, remember?" Her pure unadulterated excitement at the prospect of doing something together was enough for Bart's legs to grow weak. He grinned as the freaks left their preferred haunt. They clicked off the lights and shut the door behind themselves.
Bart preferred to avoid his house. However, constantly rotating from one couch to another was exhausting, and he didn't like to impose on Fat Tony. So sometimes he was forced to go home. In stark contrast to his childhood, he was now sneaking into his room rather than out at night. The irony was not lost on him as he climbed through the second-story window and entered his bedroom. Practically a time capsule of his early teenage years, before he asserted his independence. Plenty of the relics like his Krusty the Klown poster above his bed were enough to make him cringe.
At some point after falling asleep, Bart awoke to the sound of a broken violin being played. He knew it was a broken melody because he had once listened to Fat Tony give a passionate rendition of an Italian folk song, and by comparison, the sharp notes he was now hearing were completely off-key. Some notes held too long, some too short. This created a tone that reverberated across the unknown space, creating a hostile atmosphere that menaced his very being.
He rubbed his eyes, staring into what amounted to a void above him, and froze upon hearing a shrill voice. "Is this the one?" Punctuated by the clicks of a typewriter. Confused, he sat up and allowed his vision to clear.
Bart found himself surrounded by… nothingness. Well, almost nothing. The floor beneath him was oily, a swimming darkness that was still somehow solid beneath his feet. Directly ahead of him were two desks, a door's length apart. Seated at each were girls he recognized. Purple hair, blunt bangs, and pallid skin. Adorned in dark blue frilly dresses, there was no doubt it was Sherri and Terri. At least, how they looked in elementary school. Confused, he anxiously approached, trying to keep both eyes on these twins. As he got closer, their eyes locked on him and Bart stammered, "Uh… This is… new."
He squinted in the dim lighting, having trouble telling who was who. His confusion caused Sherri to giggle sweetly. "Heehee. The Hat Man is expecting you."
"He's fascinated by you, hee hee." Terri finished her typing. They stood in unison, and a doorway formed between them, shimmering like light through water. "Go on ahead."
Bart remained fixed in place, wary of their intentions. "You guys know me?"
The twins whispered amongst themselves, snickering, before turning back toward him. "Of course we do, silly. Have you already forgotten us?"
"Uh…"
Seeing his confusion, they sighed together. "Your memories produced our being. Consider yourself fortunate."
"So… You're not Sherri and Terri?"
"We are Sherri and Terri."
Bart lingered uneasily as the door ahead of him slowly creaked open, revealing a hallway that continued into blackness. "If that's true… you sure you're not setting me up? I can't survive another encounter with something from the deep."
Another ghostly giggle and each girl took him by the hand. "Come on, silly. The Hat Man rarely takes an interest in those of flesh." He felt compelled to trust them and was pulled along through this corridor of impossibility. On either side was the cosmos in its majesty. Stars twinkled from some unknown place, casting everything in a deep bluish hue. Although he had another question on his mind, so Bart asked. "Okay, you two are Sherri and Terri. But why are you, like, ten?"
The twins exchanged entertained looks. Terri replied, "You tell us. We took the form of those you trust most."
"Heehee… someone has some explaining to do," Sherri chittered in a sing-song voice. They walked for what felt like hours, even though it was only a couple of minutes. Bart was led into a vast area that spread out as far as his eyes could see. On every side stood high bookshelves, filled to the brim with the arcane knowledge of a curator who existed deep behind the veil of sleep. Even the spacious ceiling above comprised these shelves, their contents held in place by unseen forces. Cast in a cooling blue hue of an unknown light source, he located the source of the fragmented melody first. There was a small record player next to what appeared to be a wingback chair, composed of interwoven crow feathers and bent bone.
He soon saw the one labeled "The Hat Man." The being cast a humanoid silhouette of a scholar as it sorted through its impressive collection of literature. Its movements seemed disjointed, kind of like an awkward teenager in the middle of a growth spurt. True to the name, a bowler hat was crooked at a jaunty forty-five-degree angle on its bulbous head. At least, Bart thought it was a head; its elongated shape blended perfectly into its body, shifting beneath a trenchcoat with every movement. Flowing downward as one unified mass, ending with a wriggling, animated set of squid-like tentacles for feet. Which the hat man glided upon like a starfish, using imperceptible tubes for locomotion. The being was clearly trying to mimic a human shape, but not out of any natural ability, but as though it were masquerading.
Bart gulped, unnerved when he laid eyes on the most unnatural, horrifying, and incomprehensibly monstrous quality of this void-born figure–a fifth digit on what he assumed to be its hands as it carefully searched through its tomes. Bart covered his mouth, holding back a gag. "Oh, gross! What the hell is that!?"
"Show some respect," Terri hissed, kicking him in the back of the leg.
"Presenting… Bart Simpson, as requested," Sherri said, ignoring them.
The Hat Man became motionless, a glowing rift forming in the back of its "head" underneath the brim of its stylish hat, serving as a singular eye. Bart felt a sagely voice worm itself into his thoughts. "Fortunate you can perceive us. Our last visitor wrongly assumed our composition was of earthly make… made for quite the bizarre meeting." Moving each of its many independent parts as one, The Hat Man turned. A second chair appeared from the ether. "Please, sit. We mean you no harm."
Bart inched closer to this new seat. "… Nice digs dude. What is the rent on a place like this?" Sherri and Terri sat on the armrests on either side of him. Kicking their legs in unison, humming an unrecognizable tune innocently. An attempt at humor, which was lost on The Hat Man, materialized in the opposite chair. With it appeared five obsidian cards, lined in gold, face down between them. "Ah crap… You aren't a fortune teller, are you?"
"Nothing so banal."
"Okay… Then I assume this is about my soul—"
"… In a sense. But also not precisely. Rather, our concern is related to its status,." The Hat Man interrupted the music, ending abruptly. "Consider our nature as that of an observer. It was we who witnessed your soul's reclamation from the greasy fingers of a speculator. Then its transfer to a proper caretaker two years ago…" As it spoke, the top two cards flipped over. The rightmost card depicted a human strung upside down by a rope fixed tightly to their left ankle, and the free leg bent at a ninety-degree angle. Blood dripped down from beneath the person's hair. The left card depicted a field of twinkling stars, creating a ring circling a morose crescent moon. Its cratered face wore a deep frown as a single tear rolled down its surface. One star in the far background was glowing a reddish-orange.
Understandably, Bart was uncertain how he should react to the revelation. He wiped his brow. "Wew… For a moment, I was worried you were a debt collector or something." Without warning, the two upturned cards sparked and a magenta flame engulfed both. The other three remained face down.
"There is nothing to collect," The Hat Man responded, sounding genuinely offended by the implication that its profession was so simplistic. Its spindly fingers connected at the tips, like muscle sewn together. "Our concern is that these… transactions have attracted those who lurk in the shadows of the beyond, below, above, and fissures of in between." The glowing slit vanished again briefly, but soon reappeared like a blinking eye. "You are a victim of an administrative error. It is unclear to us why this has transpired, so rather than risk your destruction, we decided to establish a connection."
"Right. An observer, huh?"
"You may call us Elohim. We are the last of those spawned near the edge of the great nothingness, an advocate for those who exist in the material. As bipeds like yourself tend to be rather blind to their potential."
"So like… what, exactly? A guardian angel?"
Elohim made a noise akin to a whale call, as a new appendage appeared from between the buttons of its coat, stretching over Bart's head. "Please do not associate us with those primitives whose unfathomable decadence has caused them to bloat, fester and decay like the mad monarchs of antiquity. It is solely self-serving arrogance at this point that compels them to extend this artificial facade of reality as apathy eats away their veneer of benevolence…"
Bart stared blankly at his benefactor and he scratched his chin. "I assume those words mean something together."
"Perhaps they do. Perhaps not quite," Elohim explained, sounding rather exasperated for an extradimensional being, retracting its arm and bonking the boy in the back of the head, causing him to groan. "I do apologize. Since this is our first meeting, it will have to be short. I have an appointment with another. So I will leave you with this…" There was a grimoire held loosely in this third hand, yet it remained closed. "It is those who consider themselves your masters that are to blame for the tragedy that is to befall you. They have failed to do their duty, and to care for their creation, choosing instead to amuse themselves through cruelty. Your survival may require answering in kind. When the time comes, be prepared to cross their sacred line."
"Geez, man. Heavy. You might want to tell this to someone with a brain," Bart responded, his expression making it obvious he did not know what Elohim was trying to impart. He gestured to the twins on both sides of him. "Like these two. They'd love to meet you."
"Later… When we reconvene. Perhaps guests would be nice," Elohim responded as if consoling someone during a funeral. "For now, stay your course. Enjoy the moments of brevity. And brace yourself... as they will not last. Remember, a twisting road is still a path, and all roads are worth following till their end."
Bart's brow was furrowed to the point he could have been confused for his late grandfather. Deep wrinkles gave the impression that he was trying to connect the dots laid before him. When he failed to do that, he asked another pressing question. "If you are truly an observer… Do you know what happened to my friend Milhouse? Those winged things took him."
"Of course."
"Is he still alive?"
"It is entirely possible. Though the Plateau of Leng obfuscates all sight." Elohim's answer was curt and Bart never got another chance to speak as without warning, he shot up from the comforting embrace of his blankets. Back in his bedroom, a bead of sweat slid down his cheek. The Krusty brand digital clock blinked a bleary 2:00 a.m. Moonlight illuminated his surroundings, reassuring him he was back in his house.
Knowing he would not get any more sleep, Bart slid out of bed with a yawn and collected his sketchpad, padding downstairs into the living room. He sat on the couch, doodling the mysterious Elohim in the glow of the muted television. However, Bart stopped shortly after beginning the line work, instinctively feeling he should wait until the dream entity made contact again. There were already holes forming in his memory of their conversation as the strange dream faded into the background of his chattering subconsciousness.
The next morning, Terri headed over after finishing her breakfast. Not having a car meant it was a bit of a trek from the edge of the suburb to the center, so instead, she opted to use the shortcut through several backyards. The quiet allowed her to judge the mix-tape Jessica had passed on. As the sole member of Springfield's goth scene, Terri was intentionally selective about the music she enjoyed. So the traditional pop songs left a lot to be desired compared to such luminaries as Eyes of Night, Rosetta Stone, and Sisters of Mercy. Though that did not stop her from cranking her Walkman's volume to the max as she climbed over a chain-link fence separating another row of yards in suburban hell. Fortunately, it was another cloudy day, so she wasn't doomed to melt underneath the rays of sunlight.
The Simpsons' house, like the rest of the suburbs, was a two-story structure that had fallen into neglect. Its pale peach paint job was faded and beginning to show the visible cracks of age. An arched pinkish-orange front door was flanked on either side by grand bay windows that allowed a passerby to look straight into the living and dining room, respectively. A garage was on the right side, though as far as Terri knew, was not used for storing the family's cars, since they both sat in the driveway. One, a pink 1973 Plymouth, full of dents and complete with a cracked windshield, and the other, an orange station wagon of the same year that was in excellent condition by comparison.
Sliding her headphones down so they sat on her neck, Terri hesitated on the stoop, debating if she should knock or go around to throw rocks at Bart's bedroom window. Her fist hovered in the air. Yet before it connected, the door swung open, and standing there was the youngest member of the dysfunctional family: Maggie Simpson, a selective mute, whose starfish blonde hair was pulled into a bun. She was engulfed in a baggie blue shirt that hung past her skinny knees and she stared expectantly at Terri, who said, "Hey Mags. Where's your brother?"
Maggie liked Terri, since the girl was quieter than most of Bart's friends. She did not speak, instead giving a few simple signs and then pointing toward the back of the house. When Terri confirmed, "Treehouse?" Maggie nodded. "Thanks."
Terri went around the side of the house into the backyard, where a towering tree supported a simple wooden box that constituted a boyhood hideout. Once upon a time, the sign near the entrance at the top of the wooden ladder read: No girls allowed! Now it had been edited to say: Some girls allowed. No geeks.
She climbed inside, where she found Bart seated in the corner, his head leaning against a wall. His sketchpad and a half-eaten powersauce bar sat near his leg. He gave a nod. "S'up."
"Yo," Terri said, sitting cross-legged. "I am ready for my first lesson… professor."
Bart paused. "Professor, huh? Kinda like the sound of that." He crawled by her, standing on the first wrung of the ladder. "Lemme grab my board."
"Don't forget this," Terri said, sliding his sketchbook over to him. She saw his rendition of Elohim and mused. "Whose this?"
"Right now? Let's say... a dream," Bart said, taking it, as he dropped down.
Ever watchful of her estranged son, Marge sat on the seal of the front room's bay window. An overworked housewife, whose towering blue hairdo, once the subject of awestruck stares, was sagging a little like the rest of her face. She was tapping her fingers against her arm, watching as her son calmly explained the proper foot positioning on his green and orange skateboard to the Mackleberry girl. The girl was listening intently before taking a careful step onto the board.
Marge never had learned which of the pale, purple-haired twins her son was infatuated with; any attempts to get him to open up were quickly shut down. Now she could almost hear Cats in the Cradle playing in her head as Bart helped Terri balance. As it turned out, the song was playing during a commercial on television. Maybe if Marge thought about it longer than a couple of seconds, she would have noticed the similarities between herself and Terri. That perhaps her son was following in his old man's footsteps, of falling for a woman with outrageous hair.
Grumbling under her breath, Marge walked into the kitchen where her husband, Homer was sitting at the table, drinking his fourth beer for the day. He was studying a copy of Reader's Digest, a pair of smudged reading glasses sitting on his nose. His bald head shining in the overhead light, he glanced at her. "What's the matter, honey?"
"Mmmmh. Bart is awfully close to that Mackleberry girl," Marge said, sitting down next to him. She pushed away one of the duff cans. "Maybe you should… make sure he knows about the birds and the bees."
Homer's reaction was immediate. "Oh, no I'm not! I am done with that boy. You remember what Fat Tony told me." Attempting to mimic the Don's unique mannerisms by pinching his chubby fingers, he rasped, "Lay a hand on Bart again and my boys will teach you how to swim in wet cement."
Reliving the event in her mind, Marge put her elbows on the table. "How did it come to this? Our own son would rather spend time with a mob boss and a Mackleberry than us."
"Eh. Whaddya gonna do? He was always a bad egg," Homer said callously. When his wife remained visibly distraught, he tried a different tack. "Come on, Marge, the boy is eighteen. He's not our problem anymore. Let's focus our efforts on Lisa and, uh... Maggie."
Marge wasn't pleased, but what else was she supposed to do? It was too late to reconcile a relationship with their son. They had created a rift that could not be easily repaired. As a result, Bart rarely came home anymore; when he did, it was usually a quiet evening. Aside from when he would occasionally leave his room to spend time with Maggie.
Enjoying his newfound role as professor, Bart did his best to give practical advice from his position seated atop the trunk of the sedan. Already a talented dancer, Terri possessed exceptional balance and caught on quickly to the basic footwork required to steer the board. Motion complicated the process, and after four shaky passes, the inevitable happened: the front wheels rolled over a rogue pebble at the edge of the driveway, sending her tumbling.
She caught herself, but not before her knee dragged across the concrete. Bart winced, rushing to her side. "Nice! Your first spill!"
"Ow," Terri uttered, bringing her scraped knee up. It stung, so she rolled up her black jean leg, an arduous task given how tightly they clung to her body. Aside from a slight abrasion, she was fine. "Damn, that smarts."
"Not to worry. Couple more falls like that and you won't even notice," Bart said enthusiastically, patting her shoulder. "I can't even feel my knees anymore."
Terri snorted, covering her mouth. "You might want to get that checked." She pulled her pant leg down again, then stood.
Bart gave her some space. "Wanna go again?"
"Duh. One fall isn't gonna stop me," Terri said, walking to the garage door with the skateboard. She laid it on the ground, and the process began anew. Confident she had experienced the worst, she pushed off again, taking the board onto the street proper. Keeping pace, Bart jogged alongside, once again finding himself enamored by her grace. Proud of herself, she grinned. "See! No sweat!"
Bart leaped over the fence that separated his neighbor's yard from the next house. "You are amazing!" Knowing there was a hill coming up, he shouted. "If you want to stop, start by dragging your foot on the pavement!" His instruction was too rudimentary, though, and like any beginner, Terri brought her shoe down too fast. This abrupt change in momentum caused her to fly off the board, but Bart was able to catch her this time. Holding her in his arms, he flashed a toothy smile. "By Lucifer… you are so beautiful."
"Hah… Hah." Terri needed to catch her breath. Upon realizing what he said, she became red as a tomato. Steam rose from her ears as her brain processed his affectionate words. Underneath the dark makeup, she was a romantic at heart. Of course, Bart was well aware of this, as he flipped her around gracefully so she could face him. It was like they were on stage, and smoothly he gave her a dip. The movement was enough to help Terri find her voice. Placing a cold hand on his cheek, she tittered sweetly, "Jerk… You're making me clammy."
To illustrate her point, she wiped her hand downward, expecting him to recoil. Instead, Bart smirked. "That is no way to address your professor." He kissed her, once again causing her to blush.
After that public display of affection, Terri moved to pick up the board. Looking both ways at the street, she said, "Probably still got a couple of hours… Wanna see if something good is on TV?" She paused, then added, "professor…"
"There we go," Bart laughed, taking the board from her. Doing so, he noticed there was a deep cut across the middle of her palm. A faint trail of blood was running down her forearm. "Dang. Come on, let's get a band-aid first."
As they went into the house, Terri studied her palm morbidly. "Maybe we could use my blood to attract a vampire properly this time."
"Let's not. We got enough on our plate," Bart said, entering the second-floor bathroom.
"What if he's hot, though?" Terri protested.
Bart tossed her a bottle of peroxide. "Huh. When you put it that way, guess we have no choice." He paused in thought, holding the box of bandages as she rinsed her cut. "Better be a dream boat. I ain't being a blood bag for some moderately attractive vampire."
Terri hissed through her teeth as the peroxide bubbled on her skin. Applying the band-aid over the top of the cut, she said, "Getting a little déjà vu here." She giggled creepily, remembering a different escapade that resulted in some unfortunate cuts across her palms. "And why should we limit ourselves? He or she, as long as they are stunning."
Finished patching her up, they left the bathroom. Reaching the edge of the stairs, Bart asked, "So, how do you feel about skateboarding? Easier or harder than expected?"
"Bit hard. You and Jess make it look super easy," Terri answered as they descended, choosing to ignore his mother, who was ever wary of the sticky fingers of a Mackleberry. "Did you fall a lot when learning?"
"You kidding? Nearly cracked me noggin," Bart said, wrapping his knuckles against the top of his head with a dull thump. "Hell, don't ya remember? I almost jumped the gorge?"
"Oh my god, do I!?" Terri practically shouted as they avoided his dad, making for the rumpus room adjacent to the kitchen. "That was without a doubt the stupidest thing you ever tried." She paused, her cheeks inflating. "Or… the bravest."
Bart laughed, plopping onto the green barrel chair across from a tiny television on top of a tray. "Then you admit you were worried."
Terri sat on the window seal. "Of course I was." She snickered, covering her mouth, a familiar mischievous glint in her eye. "Well, for the most part. Sherri and I were hoping to see some gore… Hehe, luckily your dad delivered."
"Yeah, that was probably the last time he cared about being a dad," Bart said, his demeanor darkening noticeably. "Before, you know..." He trailed off, putting his hands around his neck, sticking out his tongue and bobbing his head exaggeratedly.
Understandably bothered by this macabre act, Terri quietly went to the door and shut it. She slid into his lap, wrapping her arms around him. "Hey. Every kid does stupid things. Any decent parent would know that." Affectionately, she placed her forehead against his. "Besides, I think you know those stunts were the reason I liked you."
"Wait… I thought it was my roguish good looks," Bart joked lightly. There were a handful of comforting routines in their relationship, and this specific conversation was one of the most common.
"Snrk. Oh yeah, little Terri couldn't resist your pot belly," she teased, touching his stomach, which, thanks to sticking with dancing, was pleasingly toned. "Wrong, though. I liked you because you weren't scared to step out of line." There was a brief silence as she thought; "that, and kissing you was more fun than it should have been."
Elementary school pranks were simple, back when all it took to get a rise out of him was a quick kiss on the cheek. A form of torment she and Sherri liked to wield often, since it was so effective. Bart gasped, "You contributed to horrible cootie outbreaks!" He clicked his tongue several times. "So many innocent lives lost."
Terri pulled back, a familiar glint in her eye. "Keehehe. I guess I should make sure you have your vaccinations." He had fallen into her maniacal clutches, as she had been planning revenge for the large bruise on her neck.
"Waaa!" Bart attempted to escape, realizing her plan, but it was too late and she bit down on the lower part of his yellow neck, slurping noisily.
When she finally stopped, Terri grinned. "See? Painless."
Bart gave her an affectionate squeeze. "Thanks. I will be sure to come back for a booster." The lights flickered on and off, grabbing their attention. His eyes flicked to the bulb on the ceiling. "Damn rats in the walls. Chewing the–"
He looked to the door, where his middle sister Lisa was standing, one hand on the switch. Her signature look of insufferable arrogance was plastered across her pimply face as she thumbed her nose down at the couple. "You creeps done? Or should I come back later?" Like Maggie, she too had blonde hair that naturally formed itself into the shape of a starfish.
"No, I think I'm done," Terri smirked, satisfied by the size of the blotch on Bart's neck. She turned her head, narrowing her eyes at Lisa. "What is it, brain? Did you get lost on your way to the library?"
Bart sank lower, trying to be out of the way of a potential catfight. Lisa was unimpressed, crossing her arms. "Gosh, Sherri, you are so funny."
Terri gritted her teeth, slowly getting up. "I know, I really am." She waved dismissively. "Nice to see you are still wearing those hideous pearls. I bet they will be all the rage at the old folks' home." Lisa liked to dress conservatively. This evening with a tacky denim jacket layered over a reddish-orange shirt and flared blue jeans. In other words, a dork's idea of what was cool.
"Uh-huh. At least I don't look like I crawled out of a morgue," Lisa retorted icily as the two stared daggers at each other. The tension in the room ratcheted up noticeably.
Normally, Bart would try to diffuse the situation, but in this case, the feud had been ongoing for as long as he could remember. He wasn't even sure what could compel the three girls to carry such a vicious grudge. Must have been something horrendous, though, given how the twins talked about his sister. So he did what any brave boyfriend would do; he whistled an absent-minded tune. While Terri spat back, "It's called fashion on a budget, bitch. Not that you would understand."
"Right, on a budget," Lisa said dryly. She gave an exasperated sigh; "maybe you would have more money if you didn't spend all your time getting high with this loser."
His ears perked up, Bart said, "Hey, that's me." He didn't have the energy to argue with his family anymore. So instead, he looked over. "What is it you want, Lise?"
Cutting straight to the point, Lisa said, "You and your freak friends are planning to take a vacation, right?" She stuck a thumb toward herself. "I want to come."
"Huh!?" Bart and Terri exclaimed, as she looked back at him, baffled.
Lisa remained deadpan. "Yeah, that's right. I want to see what you weirdos are doing down at Catfish Lake."
Terri grunted, guessing what had happened. "Nelson told you, didn't he?"
"Who else? Certainly not fruit loops," Lisa answered, using her preferred nickname for Jessica. Quickly she followed up her statement with, "It's not cause I believe you guys are really busting ghosts. I just need somewhere quiet to study for my College Algebra Exam."
Bart clamored to his feet. "You sure? I vaguely remember you calling us a…" He trailed off and then snapped his finger. "Bunch of burn-outs with no future."
"And you still are," Lisa responded. She dropped her stand-offish attitude. "Well, Nelson can be cool, and besides, the lodge is huge. So don't bother me and I won't bother you."
Putting their heads together, Bart and Terri considered the attempt at an olive branch. "What do you think?" He whispered, shielding his mouth with his hand like she wasn't standing only a foot away from him.
"She is going to be a huge drag," Terri hissed, not keen on having her arch-enemy tag along on their adventure. "You know, all she's gonna do is sit around whining."
"That's Nelson's problem. He's the one who's gonna have to deal with her." Bart offered, feeling as though the arrangement would benefit everyone. Terri gave an annoyed grunt, a sign of resigned acceptance. He nodded, turning to his sister. "Alright Lise, you can come. But we have a few conditions."
Lisa wasn't surprised. She crossed her arms. "Let's hear em."
"No jazz on the radio, no snide comments, and don't bug us once we're there." Bart listed as he counted off on his hand for good measure.
"Fine by me," Lisa said, finding the restrictions lenient. She left them alone to go pack a bag.