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Caped Crusader
That Terrible Night

Horror stories often began with a monster. This horror story began with a city. Where the Miskatonic River and the Atlantic Ocean met, resided Gotham, the ancestral home of the Miagani tribe now occupied by descendants of the European settlers who drove them to extinction.

Gotham had plenty of good horror stories and not just supernatural ones like the undead monster that lived in Slaughter Swamp. Gotham had horror stories about living breathing humans like Victor Zsasz, a serial killer who carved each of his murders as a tally mark on his own flesh.

In this dark microcosm of modern civilization, there lived a royal dynasty of sorts, the Waynes, one of the few families in Gotham whose fortune came from honest means. Its king and queen, Thomas and Martha Wayne, fought tirelessly against the social decay of their beloved city.

This dynasty had a crown prince. A chubby little cherub any grandparent would have loved, Bruce Wayne, age 6½, had a beautiful future ahead of him. One day, he'd inherit the family business. One day, he'd have a net worth of seven billion dollars. One day, women whose names every bachelor on the planet knew by heart would vie for his romantic attention.

One day, his name would add to the Wayne legacy. Today, he had only one name on his mind. Zorro. Alfred had helped (a little) in the completion of his costume. Tomorrow, young Bruce would go trick-or-treating for the first time. To celebrate, his parents would take him to the Monarch Theater. Bruce would get to see his favorite costumed crusader on the big screen. Better yet, he would get to wear the costume.

When the other doctors looked the other way as a young man lied dying, his father refused to abandon his oath. He didn't care who belonged to what family. He worked in the business of saving lives. The patient's father pulled a few strings with management to arrange an advance private screening of The Mark of Zorro, a remake of the 1940 film.

Back before anyone had laid the foundation for their stately mansion at 1007 Mountain Drive, Old Gotham had provided homes to the richest families in Gotham. When the Great Depression struck, anyone with their wealth intact moved to Bristol Township just 15 minutes north of here.

Unlike the East End, Old Gotham had enough awe-inspiring nostalgia and alluring Gothic architecture to hide its growing colony of homeless people. The wealthy elite did what they could, mostly out of guilt and usually by throwing money at the problem. Only a rare few like the Waynes truly cared about these people. Still, on a night like this, they would have preferred to have no reminders of their failure to improve their situation.

Thinking back, it felt as though it all happened in another lifetime. Like another boy had lived that life. Bruce barely remembered that sort of happiness. He had something back then he would not have for the rest of his life. Innocence.

At exactly thirteen minutes to eleven o'clock on Devil's Night, that innocence ended. Bruce Wayne had enjoyed the show. The villains had scared him, but, in the end, he knew that the hero would swoop in and save the day. The easy confidence provided by the cinematic morality tale only heightened the horror of what happened next.

Bruce practiced with his plastic sword as his parents chose an unfortunate shortcut through a dark alley. With their trusty chauffeur waylaid by illness, they needed to pass through a small neighborhood that bridged the gap between Old Gotham and the East End.

As expected, hoodlums ran the streets tonight. Egging houses and soaping windows. Nothing too extreme, his parents must have thought. No one could blame his parents for thinking that or, at least, wanting to think that. Like many Gothamites, the Waynes lived in a state of willful ignorance when it came to their city's rampant street crime.

Terrifying Bruce out of his wits, a ferocious gang circled them like hyenas. One of the revelers, a gangly boy dressed like a scarecrow, attempted to snatch his father's wallet. His father broke his arm before his hand had withdrawn. The haze of perpetual denial had at last lifted.

A black belt in karate, his father could hold his own against a band of ruffians. The leader, dressed as a skeleton, pulled a gun on him. "Big mistake, Pops." The scarecrow punched him in the gut with his good arm as soon as he realized he couldn't hurt him.

Throwing his hands in the air, his father let the scarecrow pick his wallet off the ground. The skeleton spoke. "We own the streets, rich man, not you. If we want your wallet, you give us your wallet." The skeleton looked at the neck of Bruce's mother. "If we want that pearl necklace . . ."

The skeleton trailed off as he moved in to take the treasure from around her neck. Bruce's father saw the opportunity. He attempted to disarm the leader. Perhaps, his father thought he could overpower him and take the gun. Sadly enough, brute force could only accomplish so much.

Alone, his father might have disarmed the skeleton with ease. But he loved his wife and his son and feared for their safety. He stopped to think when he should have relied solely on his training. Quite simply, his father had folded under the psychological rigors of this death-or-life situation.

In the struggle, the skeleton managed to slip away. The moment he got free from his father's grasp, he fired a single shot from his pistol. A roar of thunder and a flash of lightning exploded from the gun as the bullet smashed its way through his father's chest. His mother's scream filled the air until the skeleton fired again.

The scarecrow pulled off his mask as the blood of Bruce's mother sprayed onto it. A look of absolute terror washed over his long bird-like face. "Johnny, put your mask back on." Though visibly frightened by his words, the scarecrow refused to do what the skeleton told him to.

Bruce, as if triggered by some demonic rage, rushed at the scarecrow. He had the gun nestled on his forehead before he knew it. The skeleton laughed. "You think a fake sword can beat a real gun, Zorro." He cocked the hammer. In that moment, the scarecrow lunged for the gun. A shot rang out and missed Bruce's head by the width of a hair.

The struggle distracted them. The others had run off already. Bruce Wayne took the opportunity as his father did. The skeleton screamed as Bruce gouged out his left eye. In a hurry, the skeleton shot Bruce in the stomach. The scarecrow stayed behind. "He said . . . he didn't even keep the gun loaded. He said he only used it to scare people."

Bruce spat his own blood into the scarecrow's exposed face. They looked pretty scared to me. Terror did not excuse murder. As Bruce Wayne lied in a pool of his own blood, he wondered how these people could act like this. Even in his anger, he could not ignore the fact that the scarecrow only acted out of fear. What kind of fear could turn someone into an accessory to two murders?

Deep down, he knew the horrible truth. These creatures ruled the night. Their disguises lifted them above the law. Those not with them could not stand against them. His parents had crossed into their territory. Their leader saw fit to mete up violent punishment for their trespasses.