Bart saw little of note during his travels through the space between reality. Maybe, had he been more astute, he would have enjoyed the time dilation. Raised a family, tested a few lotto numbers, then lose everything betting black down in Vegas. Quite a life he planned out for himself. Instead, as he hurtled through unintelligible aeons, Bart opted to drum on his knee at first. The beat he created complimented the mournful pulses of the stars. Blurs of dull ruby, hot sapphire and even hotter white passed the cosmic traveler by. Like forming synapses, the stars connected into homogeneous masses
During this lengthy journey, Bart grew restless. He could only count his toes so many times before the droning took its toll. Images of violence separated scattered thoughts. Minor examples at first. Homer strangling him. A fall from the Springfield Dam, which at the time left Bart unconscious. Memories which caused his cheeks to flush and his speedy flight slowed as if he found himself submerged in molasses.
The flashes quickened now. Escalating into projections that Bart could no longer place in time or place. Shouts and jeers from a maddened mob demanding his immediate death. In their sallow, bloated, yellow faces stitched over bone through the intervention of silvery wires, he bore witness to the most primal human emotion. Hatred. Amplified through artificial fingers of an unknown make.
All at once, the air left his lungs, as his right arm snapped in its socket right at the elbow. Under different circumstances, Bart might have laughed at its limp wobble, had it not been for the spirals of shock ricocheting throughout his body. Then the experience came to an immediate end, when Bart smacked face down into the dusty tile floor of Burns' study, producing quite an impressive cloud of grey.
His fall caused a book to fall from the top shelf and bonk him right on the top of his head. "Ughh…" Bart groaned, peeling his face from the floor in a cartoony fashion. He looked around, bleary-eyed, at his new cage. No windows. No doors. But the bookshelves remained heavy with a font of esoteric knowledge, as did the desk which sat before him, waiting for the boy.
Its legs, warped by age, now bowed outward, giving weight to its cracked surface. Something about the golden smile etched onto its face drew Bart closer. Cautiously, he approached, but the faint sound of a button being pressed caused him to freeze. "Oh, co—"
His disbelief became terror as the trapdoor beneath his feet flew open. A shorter fall this time, but no less painful as Bart smacked against every haphazardly laid stone, misplaced by decades of underpaid illegal construction workers on the payroll of Mr. Burns. A few bodies built into the walls gave any building much needed extra support during catastrophes. No one ever missed a few impoverished souls.
Down he went until landing in a puddle of warm, oily liquid. Bart's entrance into this chamber made quite a splash. Along the stone wall, parallel torch sconces burned a vibrant green fire, lighting his surroundings. Parting on both sides of him, a viscous red river flowed into a nearby grate. An odor of rust and sweet moss pressed down on top of Bart like a blanket. He pinched his nostrils closed. "Eww." His gaze drifted down. "I sure hope this isn't blood."
He knew better, though. By now, he would be impressed if it was not blood soaking through his pants. Bart stood, testing the stones with his big toe, anxious to avoid another long drop. Once confident he would not fall any further, Bart inched toward the grate since it must have led somewhere.
When he reached it, though, his heart skipped two beats and he just about fainted when two beady eyes appeared in the shadows. Then he gulped when a whatever lurked within spoke. "Master … Simpson. We've waited a long time for your return." Each word dripped from unseen lips with tactful pauses, suggesting some difficult speaking.
"Master? Little ole me?" Bart asked, deflecting his abject terror with good old fashion humor.
If Milhouse had a failing, it was his cavalier, independent spirit. If he had a failing. Now standing alone in the grandiose bathroom, which connected to Mr. Burns's master bedroom through a doorway, Milhouse felt the same loneliness he had known his entire life. There, standing ankle deep in the ruins of wealth, broken tiles and shattered glass, he knew well, no one could help him now.
A man in a black suit lay in the black and white porcelain tub, soaking in a greenish liquid. One leg flopped over the edge, the tip of his shoe touching the floor. Milhouse recognized this as the same man who had appeared in the vision and the same man who had called to him from beyond, creating a searing thorn in the center of Milhouse's frontal lobe.
"Well, I am here," Milhouse said, his voice coming easier than expected. He fixed his glasses. "What now?"
"Have you considered …" Mr. Black did not stir, keeping his death-like stillness as he rested. His lips remained fixed together, raising the question of just how he could be understood. "My warning? Once they come, there is nothing I can do."
Milhouse did not want to speak. More than that, he wanted to run. Whatever lay before him could not be called a man. Sure, it wore the misfitting skin of one, but he could see its chest never rose with new breath. "What!? What is coming!?"
He raised his voice. Mr. Black remained unmoved, his eyes shut. "Do not confuse noise for bravery nor brawn for strength. As the shallow sock puppet of your character is enough for no one to remember you once you vanish."
Milhouse gulped. A phonograph in the corner sprang to life and a familiar voice filled the bathroom. "Mr. Van Houten, please. This is serious. Your son displays possessive tendencies and struggles with respecting the boundaries of others. When coupled with these outright disturbed fantasies he's written about girls in his class, I am concerned his behavior could escalate."
"How'd you get those tapes?" Milhouse asked. Dr. Sally Waxler had been his therapist after his parents' divorce.
"Is that really the question you wish to ask?"
"Who are you?"
"Salvation, perhaps by another means. But between you and me, I dislike the idea of being a savior."
"Okay, then help us."
Mr. Black's lips curled downward. "Us?"
"Help me! I don't want to stay another minute in this place!" Milhouse shouted, kicking the tub, causing some of the green liquid to splash onto his costume. He regretted it immediately when whatever the substance was began to eat away at the fabric. A sweet smell entered his nostrils, then a searing pain caused him to yelp. "What is this stuff!? It's… !"
Waking from the grave, Mr. Black shifted, his skin becoming taught as he rolled out of his bath. Like a duck's wings, his immaculate suit shed liquid without ever dampening. "Careful now, Mr. Van Houten. To escape, your first step is to provide an appropriate sacrifice. Consider this your temple … Now I ask you? Who should pay the price for transgressing upon this hall?
Being smashed through the floor of the house's attic did little to dampen Jessica's spirits. Neither did having her head smashed in quick succession against a support beam until blood trickled down her temple.
"Easy there! Normally, you are supposed to choke me out a little first!" Jessica laughed. Her forward attitude caused the tendril to release her, recoil and rush into the safety only darkness could provide from her lustful inclinations. Laying on her side, Jessica frowned. "Aww, you are no fun. I like it when guys a rough."
The art of the succubus was a delicate thing, and now confident nothing would harass her further, Jessica switched into survival mode. A mode she knew well since it had kept her safe throughout her entire life. Nothing could scare her anymore, not even monsters beyond human comprehension. What a pretty girl. Those were the words which made Jessica's blood run cold when she had only been eight years old. The aged parishioner had whispered it in her ear as he ran a rough hand through her long black hair, when he had her cornered after Sunday school one evening.
Jessica knew how to bite, however, and when that was not enough to deter his advances, she dug her nails into in his eye, screaming so loud she might have woken God. But when it was over and she was supposed to be safe, her parents blamed her.
A trip to boarding school later, Jessica knew better than to expect anyone to help her when danger came a knocking, so she learned to protect herself. And no haunted house could do any worse to her than anything else. Climbing to her feet, Jessica surveyed her surroundings, determined to find a way back to the rest of her friends.
When no passageway availed itself, she walked forward, tapping her feet against the boards. There had to be some kind of door or way for a servant to enter the attic. While she found nothing of the sort, Jessica found the next best thing. A rusted crowbar jammed into one of the support beams, holding the entire roof up. Its blood smattered surface suggested it would be the perfect tool for her purposes.
"Just like UB," she said, taking hold of it and pulling hard. Wood splintered and she freed the crowbar from its bond. Placing it on her shoulder, Jessica shouted. "Alright! If another slimy tendril so much as grazes my foot! I swear, I will burn this whole miserable house down!" Boxes shifted on the other side of her and she jerked toward them. "Try me! I've done it before!"
Whatever spirit or presence lurked out of view, receded at her threat. As if even the unseen forces were as afraid of her as she was supposed to be of them. When certain she would not be disturbed, Jessica jammed the crowbar in between the two floorboards, putting her back into it as she pushed down, hard.
The moistened wood, molded from decades of neglect, broke into many pieces with little effort from her. However, as she guessed escaped, did not avail itself. Instead, rusted roots filled in the break in the floor like a scab healing over a wound, locking together to prevent her from leaving. "Of all the days to not style your hair, Terri." Jessica lamented, always prepared to make a homemade flamethrower should the need arise.
Considering alternative options, she looked to where an attic window might have been in a normal house. A sheet of riveted metal told her everything she wanted to know, and with a smirk, Jessica moved to pry it off the wall.
Whatever spoke meant Sherri and Terri no harm, otherwise it could have smashed them both into a fine paste. That much, both girls felt confident in as they peered out across the void, squinting in the dim light.
Within the ocean of blackness, Sherri could see segments of what had to be a larger body oscillating with a defined rhythm. When one obsidian segment faded, another came into view further down a way, but by the time she blinked, her focus was already on another piece of a greater whole. A glimmer of a rubbery onyx, resting below the surface of shadows, only appearing when the thing's body crested the murky surface.
"Yes … You both have your elder's eyes," said the disembodied voice. "Heh, heh, heh. Polluted hatchlings of C'anerri's transgression. What has brought you to this forsaken place?
"Umm." Terri swallowed, tightening her hold on her sister's hand. "Can we ask who is speaking?"
Sherri whispered. "Careful. We don't know this archon's intentions."
"Archon?" The voice boomed with indignation. "To speak with such ignorance! I am nothing so frail. When your Earth's rulers blew life into dust …. they did so with MY instructions!"
Sherri and Terri hugged each other closer, quaking in terror. "Please! We meant no offense. This is new for us!"
"Yes, it would seem so. But the power is there, sequestered deep within your blood …. Perhaps we can make a mutually beneficial deal."
"Uh, how about no?" Sherri said.
"Yeah, Baba A'qerri told us to never make deals with anything that would not give us a name." Terri added.
"Aww, yes. Miss A'qerri, her and her sister's union with Simon Magus was quite a lovely affair. Her caution is correct…" A period of quiet followed, punctuated by a wet sloshing sound, no doubt produced by the movement of the creature's body. "I believe the last magician I formed a pact with called me …"
The string of syllables which were spoken formed rashes across both girls' pale skin. Painful blotches of red welts which could not be soothed by scratching. Terri felt as though she had shoved her arm down a fire ant's nest again. Too bad this time she did not have a straight razor handy to alleviate her agony.
Through pained grunts, Sherri cried, "Something else!"
A few audible clicks echoed off the vast space. "Greed is an acceptable alternative," said the creature, which remained concealed from view. "Now … daughters of C'anerri. Help me, and I will help you."
Terri clapped both hands together. "Our first pact!"
Sherri crossed her arms, maintaining a healthy distrust. "We won't be signing over our souls or anything like that. Only an idiot would sell their soul."
"Nothing so simplistic," Greed said. As it spoke, three pairs of dull red orbs appeared, floating in the air in vertical, parallel lines. "Allow me to jumpstart your latent powers … and in exchange, we will seal this breach together."
"We need to save our friends," Terri said.
"Then let us save your friends."
Sherri and Terri nodded in unison. "Please."
Pulling off the sheet metal, Jessica peered into a ventilation shaft. Puzzled, she remarked. "This isn't the roof." Boxes shifted behind her, causing her to gulp. Whatever had been deterred by her earlier threat was becoming restless. "Hey!" She pointed toward the noise. "It's rude to rush a girl! Keep it up and you won't get a turn at all!"
Her suggestion fell on deaf ears when the lurker's pale, skeletal hand appeared from the shadows, reaching out in her direction. Jessica gave a small squeak, decided against taunting it further, and jumped into the vent.
As she discovered, true horror came in unexpected forms. Crawling into the deep, slime-covered, rotted metal throat, Jessica felt tooth like nails gnashing through her costume before ripping into her skin. The surrounding space pulsated like a great beast swallowing its latest meal. A sensation which caused her heart rate to quicken as panic set in. A suffocating odor of iron filled her nostrils, causing her to gasp for air, desperate to breathe. Desperate to fight off feelings of fears which, she knew, would only impact her escape, Jessica bit down on her cheek. "Come on, girl. Get a grip."
A low, deep moan shook her surroundings as the attic skeleton climbed inside after her. Jessica kicked back blindly, her foot squishing into something soft and wriggling. Motivated now, she jerked forward, nails dragging against skin as she scrambled into the unknown.
While his friends dealt with a cosmic drama beyond his pay grade, Nelson faced down a more primal threat. Having awoken in the kennels in which Burns stored his trusty hounds, often used to chase of intruders, Nelson first became frightened when the snarls and howls echoed off cold stone brick. When a mangy dog stumbled into view drooling with its ribs visible, he reached for whatever might constitute a weapon. His hand found a rusted pick axe, no doubt left behind by the workers tasked with excising the angel found beneath the property.
He did not need a lesson on what to do, and so as the rotted hound lunged at him, Nelson plunged the tip of the pickaxe through its empty eye socket. "Hiya!" Bone crunched beneath the blow; the beast fell limp at his feet. Its legs continued to twitch. A long red tongue rolling onto the floor, coated in a fine slime.
Nelson stood, wiped his chin, taking the moment of calm to survey his surroundings. Empty cages stack on top of each other sat on either side of him. Light streamed through a slit window at the top of the wall. Pushing one cage beneath it, Nelson climbed on top to get a look outside.
Riddled with holes, the backyard resembled a cemetery whose residents had yet to be laid to rest. A fact made evident by a thin figure digging away at the center of a life-sized chessboard. The pieces lay smashed and bleeding all around this person as they continued their work. From his position, Nelson could not tell who it was, but in the starlight he could make out grey, flat-topped hair.
The sound of metal crashing off stone caused him to lurch back around, pickaxe ready for another hound's assault. Finding nothing, Nelson waited, listening and upon hearing cursing, he bolted toward the door of the kennel. He slid it open, peering through the crack into the connecting corridor. Having fallen out on the floor, Jessica's bloodied, muck covered body left quite an impression. Three nasty gashes along her back might have been a normal occurrence under different circumstances.
Startled, Nelson rushed to her. "Jess!? Yo, you good man!?" He hesitated before rolling her over. "Aww man, you better not be dead. I can't explain this to the cops again."
"Snrk." She snorted, then started to snicker before belting into a full-blown cackle. He frowned, pushing Jessica onto her side, who grinned up at him. "Nelly! You were worried about me!" In a strange moment between the two, her sardonic playfulness gave way to tears. "Oh my god, I almost died in there!"
Her brush with mortality rattled Jessica to her bones, who felt like hurling and just about did when she felt the blood running down her cheek. "Ugh." She pushed Nelson away, crawling to the corner. "This is so totally going to ruin my foundation."
Nelson decided to let her downplay the severity of her experience. "Nice. I'll finally get to see what kind of horse-face is hidden underneath all that paint."
"Horse-face?" Jessica repeated, her eyebrow twitching. She jerked around toward him. "I'll have you know I have a perfectly symmetrical face! In fact, I!" She placed a dramatic hand on her chest. "Won competitions when I was only four, with my natural features alone."
"Uh huh, and did those competitions teach you how to survive a death hole?" Nelson asked, offering her a hand.
He hoisted her up, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "No, that would be the rampant parental neglect of my emotional well-being." Jessica gave him a nudge with her crowbar. "Sure, you can relate Nelly."
"No, you don't. We aren't discussing my issues." Nelson slung the pickaxe onto his shoulder. "We are crushing zombie hounds until we find my bro."
"Milly?"
"Him, too, but he's not my bro. I am gonna kill him," Nelson said, taking the lead. A light flicker overhead and snarls echoed from somewhere deeper within the kennel. "He looked back. "You sure, you're good."
Jessica waved a hand. "Who me?" Her expression became one of cat-like arrogance. "Aww, do you care about me?"
"No, I care about not getting turned into a toad by Sherri and Terri."
"But you are already a toad."
Nelson's nostrils flared. "Glad you are okay, Jess."
"Hey. I may be a bitch, but I've grown to quite like you and uh … who's the slender rat boy again?" She smirked, wiggling her fingers. "Anyhow, it was Terri's idea. She just kept going on and on about how worried she was about you guys getting hurt."
"I'll shoplift her a nice cake later," Nelson said, making a mental note. They headed down the only path open to them. "So, uh, any idea what is going on here?"
"Black magic really isn't my thing, ya know? It's satanic."
"So is pushing sleeping beauty off her tower."
"Ohh, why you gotta go bringing up the past, Nel~ly."
"Cause you scare me more than this house."
"Eh. Sounds like a you problem."
Nelson held out a hand for her to stop. She readied her weapon as another hound limped into view. This one's wart-covered tongue, dragging behind its hind legs like an old piece of sausage. They did not wait for it to act first, both of them charging the beast. Its eyeballs popped like grapes from its sockets and once it was limp, Nelson jammed his pickaxe into it for good measure. "I just figured, since you guys do all those sleep overs …"
"Those? Well, we mostly compare breasts and do our nails. Ya know, girl stuff?"
"Really?" Nelson stopped dead in his tracks, conjuring the mental image with all his willpower."
"Kidding!" Jessica slapped his back. "Don't be a perv! That stuff only happens in the movies." She pulled on his arm. "But we should hurry. I have a feeling Sherri and Terri might know more than they let on."
Two more hounds appeared, and two more hounds innards painted the walls a sickly, red. Nelson paused to catch his breath. "After this, wanna do some whip-its?"
"Would I!? I'd love to!" They hastened their pace, hoping to at least find some relief from the stench of rotting flesh.