Chapter Text

The Simpsons. Those average schmoes who somehow managed to get their own TV show, courtesy of that weird cartoonist named Matt Groening, who created a comic strip featuring talking rabbits. Everyone in Springfield knew who this family were, though their reactions were varied—while some looked up in wonder, others groaned disapprovingly.

"Why can't I get my own TV show?" was the frequent response to the Simpsons arriving anywhere. Though it was a bit harsh and slightly egotistical, it was a fair question, because not only were the Simpsons a typical family, but Groening could've chosen anyone else and it likely wouldn't have even made a difference. If, say, the Spuckler family had gotten their TV show, we'd all be talking about Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel instead of Homer Simpson.

You. Yes, you. The person who's probably reading this right now. What do you think would happen if the Simpsons finally managed to make the worst mistake ever? And no, not the type of sitcom blunder that gets resolved in twenty-two minutes by deus ex machina—nope. What would happen if they screwed up so badly that reputations were tarnished, members were disowned, and bonds were broken?

Ladies and gentlemen, it is with that objective that I present to you an alternate reality. Where Groening's anti-aging magic finally wore off and things got a lot more mature. Where nothing abruptly resets back to normal like you just closed a game without saving and loaded it back on. Where blood isn't restricted to Treehouse of Horror episodes. Where an unknown entity causes chaos everywhere they go.

Yet of course, every story has a beginning. So now I show you where it all started.

* * *

742 Evergreen Terrace, 12:00 a.m.

Bart Simpson, America's former bad boy, had a hard time sleeping. It was midnight and yet he still couldn't get any shut-eye. He twisted and turned in his bed, attempting to get at least some degree of rest, but he failed, so he just gave up and jumped off the bed.

Bart walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and brought out a carton of milk, before taking out a glass and pouring the milk into it. He thought that would help him—at least he remembered some parts of Lisa's annoying sermons. Yet as he took the first gulp his eyes were drawn to something glowing red outside.

"Huh?" He dashed to the door and onto the porch, and his eyes widened.

Four men in hooded crimson robes were chanting in Latin and raising their hands, which were emitting bright red light, and their shadows were so long they stretched to the fence next to the Flanderses. The wind was spinning so strongly around the men that leaves were snapping off branches, their robes were flipping around frantically, and Bart had a hard time seeing clearly—until he finally looked up.

Maggie was floating in the center of the action. She wore her white sleeper, her arms were spread out and her mouth was open, as if she was unaware all this was happening. Her red pacifier sat on the ground below her, untouched by all the wind.

"MAGGIE!" Bart pushed one of the men aside, breaking the enchantment. The others rushed to help their accomplice up as Bart saw Maggie falling and dived to catch her.

"You idiot!" Another man clenched his fist and glared hatefully at Bart. His face was obscured by shadow, so it was just a black void under the hood. "Do you have any idea what you've just done, boy?"

Bart glared at the man as he picked up Maggie. "What else was I supposed to do? You were doing something bad to my sister, I know it! That weird ritual was probably cursing her or inflicting a villainous charm!"

"See, this is why I don't trust kids, they always assume everything." The hooded figure pointed at Bart. "GODDAMMIT! You've cut the enchantment short, so now she's going to prematurely be able to talk!"

Bart's eyes widened for a split-second. "WHAT?"

"What did you think we were doing? Look, we were trying to enhance her health, not her smarts! That infant was foretold to die at five years old! You've just given her a useless ability to speak when she could've been enchanted to live longer! If we'd gone further, maybe she even would've become immortal!"

Bart was too stunned to reply.

"Forget it, he's too dumb to comprehend." The man who fell earlier wiped dust off him, turned his cloak, and walked away. The others did the same thing.

"Mark my words. We will curse one of your family members as payback for what you did. Maybe then you'll be able to tell the difference. MARK MY WORDS, BOY!" The last man turned his cloak and followed the other hooded figures.

Just then, Maggie woke up. "Huh? Where's my pacifier?"

Bart held back the urge to scream. "What did they do to you?"

"What did who do to me?"

"You can talk!"

"Oh, finally. Now you guys can understand me." Maggie jumped off of Bart and stumbled away from Bart. "Ah, much better." She picked up her beloved pacifier and sucked on it. "The joys of being a baby."

Bart gathered his thoughts for fifteen seconds, pacing the porch. "Listen, Maggie. Keep this a secret from Mom and Dad and Lisa. This is just between us. No one has to know. No one!"

"Alright. Let's get back to sleep and pretend this never happened."

"Okay."

The two walked back toward the house, drank some milk, and went back to their rooms. Bart finally managed to sleep, so by 1:00 a.m. he was dreaming of destroying Springfield Elementary using a massive wrecking ball.

But little did they know that the hooded man's words would come true. Little did they know of the damage they had done. And little did they know of who exactly would get cursed.

* * *

Now we finally get introduced to the main character—Marge Simpson. Most of the time, she's the housewife and matriarch, although she's also done some bizarre things that she probably regrets. Sooner or later, she's going to have another one to add to the list.

742 Evergreen Terrace, 3:00 a.m.

"Hey, Barney, you want to invite Duffman over to Moe's?" Homer mumbled in his sleep, dreaming that he was drinking ten-gallon barrels of beer. He giggled and went back to snoring, drool dripping out of his mouth.

"Bleeding Gums, is that you?" Lisa reached out and grabbed thin air.

Bart was lying face down on the bed. "Maggie, remember to keep quiet until the time is right. Got it?"

Maggie didn't move a muscle in her crib.

However, Homer woke up early, feeling the urge to use the bathroom. As he rubbed his eyes, he found that Marge wasn't on their shared bed. This was unusual, as Homer would usually notice when he had the entire bed to himself.

"Oh, maybe she just stayed up doing some work or something." Homer shrugged it off and went to the toilet. "Marge isn't the type to not get any sleep for no reason."

When he left the bathroom, he found Marge pacing the living room worriedly. "M—Marge? What're you doing? It's 3 in the morning!"

Marge sat on the couch and sighed. "I haven't been able to sleep since I had a dream a few minutes ago. It was...weird."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Marge looked around for a pen and paper. She turned on the lights and began drawing a large room, with a table in the center and six chairs surrounding it. A TV, VCR, and large speakers lay in the back of the room. Marge added sheets of paper on top of the table and finally people. Only five were in their seats and the last person was sleeping in the corner.

"I dreamed I was in a meeting with five people. I don't know why." She finished her drawing by adding her signature hair and dress to the figure sitting in the middle chair, its back turned to the viewer. "I can't recall anything else, but we eventually got into a fight or something and it all just went...kaboom."

"Kaboom?" Homer imagined his wife holding a handgun and pointing it at faceless figures, before shooting at a great big floating question mark that burst into flames soon after. "How'd it do that?"

"I don't know either, Homer," Marge replied as she lay down on the couch, propping her legs up on the left armrest. "It all happened so fast."

Homer walked around the room thinking. "You might have imagined being in the Springfield Meeting Center. None of us have been there yet, so I can only think of the exterior."

The Springfield Meeting Center was a rectangular gray building with five floors, the lower four accessible without a VIP pass. It was built a year ago to solve the residents' problems of not having proper meeting places for their discussions. The boss was Samantha Crandall, a hard-of-hearing middle-aged woman who began using hearing aids three months ago. Her employees knew her to be stubborn and a pain in the neck to work with.

"So when do you think we'll go to that place?" Marge put the drawing on the dining table. "That is, if we are going to that place."

"I heard they send letters to each person invited to a meeting. You have to consult the boss first in order to choose a room." Homer fumbled for his myPhone and typed "springfield meeting center" on Google.

"Here." Homer clicked on the official Springfield Meeting Center website and handed the phone to Marge, who scrolled around looking for a time to book a meeting. She eventually clicked February 9th.

"I'm not sure about this." Marge returned the phone to Homer. "They say if you can remember some parts of a dream it's a warning. Do you believe in that stuff, Homer?"

Homer shrugged. "Eh. I just dismiss it all as crap."

Marge got up from the couch and headed to the bedroom, Homer eventually following her. They got into the bed and pulled the blankets over them, though it took a bit of work to get Marge to sleep peacefully.

Ironically, what happened after that was anything but peaceful.