A devil inhabited Springfield. Aged and withered by an unnatural life which spanned back decades to the town's founding, his name was Charles Montgomery Burns. Though most knew him as Mr. Burns, attaching a reverence to his name as if he would grant them boon out of the kindness of his blackened heart.
Mr. Burns despised the locals who he viewed as little more than the serfs who he generously allowed to inhabit his domain. Like a French monarch, he enjoyed the noise of spectacle and often hosted lavish galas in which the townsfolk were invited to take part in once a year. At least he used to. For reasons unknown to everyone but the man himself, by the time Bart entered the fifth grade, Mr. Burns receded from the world at large.
His Nuclear Power Plant was handed off to an employee named Carl without warning and Mr. Burns vanished into seclusion within his grand manor. All he brought with him were his trusted servants; the most important being Walyon Smithers, who sometimes could be found buying odds and ends from local hardware stores.
So with a whimper, this staple of the town faded from public memory until a wellness check was conducted on his property. Whatever the police unearthed was enough for them to board up the windows and condemn the entire building.
As he stood before the ominous double doors, whose knobs chained together, Bart remarked. "It is never a good sign when Sherri and Terri don't want to go inside."
"Eh, they are just messing with us, man," Nelson said, rattling the chain. "Though we aren't getting in through the front."
From the bottom of the driveway, Sherri and Jessica broke into laughter as Nelson and Milhouse grabbed hold of Bart, swooshing his slender frame through one of the missing panes of a nearby window. Terri refrained from outright laughing, but cracked a relieved smile when Bart reappeared unharmed, offering a hand to his chums.
"You know they are so dead, right?" Sherri teased, giving her sister a nudge.
"Shhh! Don't say that!" Terri cried, smacking at her arm. Her expression darkened. "Sure, there might be some lingering ghouls, but a little possession never hurt anyone."
"So who is gonna come screaming out first?" Jessica asked as the three crowded together taking bets.
On the inside, Bart felt dwarfed by the tall ceilings, which reminded him of the state's capitol building. The glass dome in the center was smashed to pieces, so the night sky lit the foyer and the two staircases which curved around the light. While on either side were two corridors spanning two opposing directions.
Nelson squinted, peering into the empty abyss of the left hallway. Rays of light provided a bluish haze, but only further revealed smashed furniture and broken lamps. His hand moved to his pants pocket where, relieved, he found a waiting cigarette. "So, I am just saying, if there is some kind of psychotic homeless guy in here, he's your problem, Bart."
"Who, me?" Bart feigned innocence with a hand on his chest. He gave a sly grin. "You spooked?" Although despite his best efforts to stand straight, the clattering of his knees betrayed readily betrayed Bart's fear.
"No, of course not, dingus. We're just in some old fossil murder house. Surely nothing bad at all could happen." Nelson brought out his lighter, grateful for a source of warm light. He took a puff, stepping forward, shattered glass crunch beneath his shoe.
Ever full of bluster, Milhouse punched his palm, following. Bart took a step back, to once more poke out into the fresh air. He waved at the snickering bitches, who responded in kind. A sudden howl of wind echoing around him caused Bart to yelp and book it back to his friends.
He lept into Milhouse's muscly arms, prompting him to waggle his eyebrows. "Hey, babe. Come here often?"
"Heh, maybe a little too often," Bart said, wiggling free. He could not ignore the broken chandelier strewn atop a reddish-brown carpet. "Man, waddya think happened here?"
"Who cares? All we gotta do is get comfortable and kick back till morning." Milhouse shrugged. Even the dust and mold spores in the musty air could not dissuade him from showing up a bunch of girls.
Nelson puffed on his cigarette, more concerned about the prospect of asbestos. Although he kept those fears to himself. "Now, I wonder. Where do you guys think the old man kept his gold?"
"If it were me, I'd keep it in a hole in the wall," Bart said, feeling a hairy set of legs skittering up his pant leg. Forcing him to do a bit of a jig to free the offending spider, upon which he cupped it in his hand. The little critter's eight eyes started up at its fleshy captor. "Hey little dude, you trying to scare me?"
While he moved the spider to the safety of the window seal, Milhouse said, "My money's on the study. Gotta be a safe right? Rich old bastard like Burns."
An intense game of rock-paper-scissors followed to determine just where they would pilfer first. The study won on a technicality when Nelson jumped, hearing a crack of thunder and chose scissors to Milhouse's rock. So they pressed into the gloom, Bart noticing the unpleasant odor of wet dog which settled in his throat. As they walked, he noticed each portrait of the ever vain Mr. Burns had its eyes scratched out, but by this point expected nothing less.
In fact, he would have been far more terrified if everything was in pristine condition. What troubled them most, though, was the blurs of movement at the edge of their vision. Peculiar oily shapes of bipedal entities, lurking below the first layers of reality. With black holes for eyes, their motives remained unknown as they stalked the interlopers, careful to stay out of view.
Nelson's light forced them to flee, but as the flame flickered, they returned, reaching outward to embrace the boys. Process of elimination meant the study was behind the ajar door at the end of the hallway. Inside, Bart found shredded pages strewn about the floor and bookshelves once laden with many esoteric tomes empty.
A search ensued as each boy split shuffled to a different part of the room. Nelson searched the drawers of a writing desk across from the entrance, while Milhouse checked the shelves. Bart opted instead to lie on a dust-covered couch, one hand on his forehead. "Hmm, gentlemen, it is most chilly in here."
Unable to find anything like a secret switch or keys to a safe, Nelson took a seat on the high-back leather swivel chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk, with both hands resting on his stomach. "Now, Mr. Simpsons, I don't pay you to lounge around. Do you have the report on the atoms I requested?"
"No, sir!" Bart declared, grabbing a book from the floor before tossing it through the air. Tactile as ever, Nelson spun, using the back of the chair as a shield. A shower of loose papers followed.
Ignoring the commotion, Milhouse groped around the top rung and felt his hand brush against something spherical. Cold to the touch, he wrapped his palm around it. He never realized his error before he found himself transported into the past. Cruelty creates wounds in history and Milhouse stood mouth agape in a waxy version of the study.
Standing in the center of the room, Mr. Black stared down at a wounded Mr. Burns whose leg, chewed to ribbons, bled profusely onto the ground. "You're mad!"
"Please, Monty. This is just business," Mr. Black sneered, concealing both hands behind his back; "Retirement will be good for you."
"Fool!" Mr. Burns choked, spraying red mist into the air. He clutched his oozing wound, desperate to stem the flow of blood as a chill overtook the rest of his body. "The machine has a will! It won't simply let you control it!" He coughed. "It is their creation and will not serve another master!"
"Globex has noted your concerns. We will take them under consideration," Mr. Black retorted. "The machine is both the gate and the key. To challenge the Mad Kings, we must turn their tools against them." He walked toward the door, then paused before looking back. "Release the hounds," he said, wearing a malicious smirk as Burns's beloved dogs rushed into the room.
Snarling beasts, driven mad by the crude metal caps sewn into their skulls, they tore into their former master without fail. Sharp teeth plunged into both his arms and legs, ripping them from his body. Milhouse turned white, as the old man's shrieks drowned out every other noise. He felt faint and grabbed hold of the shelf to prevent from falling.
The minor disturbance caused Mr. Black's eyes to flick to this intruder. "Careful, Milhouse. You shouldn't linger here, or they will find you."