Samhainophobia
General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.
Notes: My first fic, I hope you'll like it. I certainly had fun making it.
Samhainophobia is a fear of Halloween.
Taphophobia is a fear of being buried alive.
Each chapter is divided into two shorter parts, for easier reading.
Chapter One: Taphophobia
Mr Hector Pyckle was not a pleasant man in many ways. He was impatient, greedy and possessed of a smugness which grated on his acquaintances' nerves, even at the best of times. The first impression people got when they met Hector was that of a chubby, pig-eyed man who sweated profusely when upset.
He was sweating now, the tiny beads trickling down his neck and onto his sensible white shirt.
However, whatever Hector had previously done in his mediocre life, he did not deserve this particular house guest in his work-room.
He licked his lips nervously and raised himself self-importantly to his full height, which wasn't much.
'What are you saying, man? D'you think you can just waltz in into my house, wearing that ridiculous outfit and take my money from me?' he snorted indignantly.
'Why, yes, I think you'll find that I can', said the Scarecrow.
He was a looming, unnaturally thin form, standing completely still in the shadows, directly opposite the corpulent businessman's desk.
'Well, I won't allow it!' Hector shouted, louder than necessary in the night silence. Perhaps someone would hear him and arrive to help.
'I'm sorry to say that, at this point in our transaction, what you want is of no importance at all. I will be needing your voluntary assistance as to the safe's lock code. Let's spare ourselves any... unpleasantness, shall we?' whispered the rag-faced man.
He took a step forward, his dark coat shifting ominously, and continued:
'After all, I do believe that the ten thousand dollars in question are merely a bribe from one of your lesser-known associates. Arthur Bailcliff, the building magnate, if my source is correct. It's hardly honest money, wouldn't you agree? Not earned from your toil and, ahah, sweat, certainly.'
Hector leaned backward in his chair, as far away from the figure opposite him as possible.
'No...' he mumbled, 'you must be mistaken, I never...'
The Scarecrow walked over to the man, slammed the briefcase he had been holding onto the desk and opened it carefully. He took out a spray-can.
'As I can see that you are not co-operating, you give me no choice but to persuade you.'
Hector's eyes widened.
'You can't do that to me! I have a poor heart condition!'
'And I have a poor bank account!' the Scarecrow snapped.
'Alright, alright, put that thing back...' Hector wheezed, after a moment's pause.
He had heard what the fear gas did to the human mind and had no desire to see a demonic version of his mother-in-law. He waddled over to the safe and slowly unlocked it. His cheeks burning with regret, he handed the large wad of cash over to the lean creature watching him.
'Satisfied? Now please, please go! And don't you ever dare come back, or I swear I'll call the police! I have highly-positioned friends there!'
'Don't be agitated, Mr Pyckle. I have no intent to return. There's nothing to be afraid of... Except this.'
A short gush of the fear gas suddenly hit a startled Hector.
'Just so you don't decide to call the police as soon as I go. You'll be fine in the morning, trust me.'
Hector stared unmoving at the now nightmarish figure in front of him. The Scarecrow gave him a faint smile.
'Now... All it takes is a little... Boo!'
Hector fainted.
***
The Scarecrow calmly left the unfortunate Hector Pyckle's residence. The rustle of his costume was the only sound on the deserted street.
He walked slowly, passing rows of identical upper middle-class houses. The Scarecrow felt a furious pleasure at being so close to the ignorant masses no doubt asleep in their homes, unaware of the silent threat stalking their neighbourhood.
After a brief walk, he reached the outskirts of one of Gotham's newer business areas. All was going according to plan. He tried hard not to think of the vast amount of money he'd just acquired. There would be time to gloat at his gains later.
When he changed clothes and boarded the night train disguised as an average citizen, he could breathe freely again. The Scarecrow now concentrated hard on the sounds of the city. He strained to hear distant police sirens or perhaps the telltale metallic noise of a certain vigilante's grapnel gun hitching onto a wall.
For a while, it seemed that his activities had passed unnoticed, for there was no sign of alert. The Scarecrow's eyes darted back and forth beneath his mask of sacking.
He stopped abruptly, made a movement as if to readjust his grip on the briefcase and continued walking as before.
He'd seen something move above him - a mere shadow, but enough to alarm him of a much unwanted presence.
He suddenly turned around a corner and started to run, resisting the urge to glance behind. Gradually gaining momentum, he made a mad dash across the street and into the subway.
It was empty at this time of night and the echo of his feet in the silence resounded heavily on his eardrums.
Exiting the subway, the Scarecrow altered his route and took flight in the general direction of the docks. The wind in the straw form of his mask made an eerie whistling noise.
His long, gangly legs were working to an advantage. It wasn't an elegant gait, but it certainly did the job. If there ever was a natural runner, it was Jonathan Crane. He'd had plenty of opportunities to learn the hard way.
The way led him through several narrow streets. Around him the cityscape changed, becoming less lit with street lighting and cluttered with abandoned and decaying furniture. The Scarecrow dodged the garbage and climbed a stairway to the terrace of a derelict building. No one followed.
Heart pounding, he glanced at his wrist watch. He could lie low here for half an hour, then change into the suit and make his way to the station discreetly. He patted the briefcase, hardly believing he'd managed to pull the entire business off.
The sooner he left Gotham, the better. Things were getting rather heated recently and he didn't want to be the one suffering the flames.
***
The man known to the wider public merely as the Scarecrow steadied his shallow breath. His protruding ribs heaved and his sides hurt from running. He sat on an empty crate and stared blankly in front of himself, both hands clutching the invaluable briefcase tightly.
A soft rain had started falling and mud had begun to flow in swirls on the terrace. The Scarecrow hated stormy weather on nights when he was working. It made his straw and burlap costume look pitiable.
He shifted on the crate, looking upwards hopefully, in case the rain looked ready to stop soon.
Out of the dark, a black figure he hadn't noticed before jumped from the terrace rail towards the Scarecrow.
He leapt to his feet and turned to face the newcomer. Trust the Bat to ruin his night out...
The Scarecrow stopped dead. This was unexpected.
The Catwoman was standing before him, a wry smile on her face.
***
'Lovely night, Crane. I saw you skulking around when you made a run for it. Very rude. You didn't even stop to say hello... My feelings were hurt. I decided to see what you have that's so valuable, you had to leg it halfway across town to avoid being caught.'
There was a distinct purr to her voice that the Scarecrow didn't like at all. She couldn't know what he'd stolen, could she?
He sighed. Of course she could. If he had found out about Pyckle's bribe, so could Gotham's underground's most famous burglar. He lied anyway.
'I'd be careful now, if I were you. There are some very nasty new chemicals in here. I was lucky to get them before the police confiscated the rest. They'll only prove useful to me, I'm sure.'
The Catwoman, also known to a select few as Selina Kyle, rolled her green eyes. She'd heard about Pyckle's dealings from the same source, they'd even been obliging enough to tell her that old Bird-Scarer had expressed interest, too.
She never usually stole from the original thief, preferring to test her own skills in obtaining riches. It was a matter of good sportsmanship.
Tonight, however, she was willing to make an exception. Apart from the knowledge that it was safe money (the owner would surely never report a stolen bribe), she itched to ruin any plans of crazy Professor Crane. He'd only use the cash to create more of his gaseous nightmares.
Selina flexed her metal claws, fixing her gaze onto the certified lunatic in front of her.
She disliked the Scarecrow for many reasons, ranging from his repulsive experiments to the fact that his would-be frightening alias hid a very boring, embittered and pathetic personality.
She took a step closer, homing in decisively for the briefcase.
'Why don't you let me be the judge of who'll find your goods useful, hmm?'
'I-I-I am in a bit of a rush at this time...' the Scarecrow stuttered and moved back to the stairs, revealing a little of his embarrassing Crane personality.
'That's a pity. I'll have to cut to the chase, then!' exclaimed the Catwoman cheerfully, leaping at the rapidly retreating villain.
The Scarecrow took a desperate swipe at her with the briefcase. The Catwoman evaded the blow easily and pulled the briefcase out of his skinny hands, throwing it aside. She struck him unexpectedly and the metal claws tore through the fabric of his costume and into his arms, which he'd lifted to protect his face. His shriek was cut short as he got a punch onto his ribs that made him collapse on the ground. Still sprawled, he tried to regain his breath, but was grabbed roughly by his coat. Lifting him slightly, the woman hissed:
'Thinking of going somewhere, Crane?'
He felt his mask being pulled off and gazed up at her blearily. He was exposed now and everything was over. So soon, too, despite his high expectations of his ingenious plan.
Without the mask, the Scarecrow deteriorated into Jonathan Crane, who felt as unintimidating as he looked. He didn't meet the Catwoman's eyes as he muttered:
'You're taking risks tonight, aren't you? I could give you a hard fight for that money...'
'Remember', he continued, regaining a little confidence, 'You behold the man behind the Mask of Fear!'
'I doubt it. You see, the man behind this mask', she answered, narrowing her eyes, 'Isn't much of a man at all...'
Selina momentarily felt taken aback at the expressions of shock that flickered across the vaguely rat-like features of Crane's face. He made an ugly grimace, which, for a second, looked as though he would break down sobbing, when a sudden hatred spread over his face.
She was kicked upwards with a force that she'd never credited the Scarecrow of having. It must have been pure rage that propelled him onward, because he advanced regardless of her repeated hits.
Usually he succumbed to defeat once he was unmasked. The mask was there for giving him self-confidence as much as it was for enhancing the effects of the fear gas.
Selina realised, too late, that gassing her was exactly he was after when he reached into his coat.
The spray caught her right in the face and Selina choked, steadying herself in a corner against a pile of crates.
The gas distorted her vision and the world swam unpleasantly. In her mind, the crates became coffins, each opening to swallow her. Stumbling backwards, she whispered to herself in the hope that it would release her from the images.
'Coffins are just wooden boxes. They can't hurt you. Pull it together. They're not going to make it your burial right now... Burial. Buried alive. Buried alive. Buried alive...'
Crane watched her while he put on his retrieved mask. She was backing away from him and he moved forward, directing her toward a circular hole on the edge of the terrace. It was a large vertical pipe, the kind used as a rubbish chute for discarded building materials.
He shoved her suddenly and she fell down the hole. Her fall was greatly softened by the debris at the bottom, which consisted of damp leaves and rubbish. It emitted the sickening, sweet smell of rot.
He hoped it would remind her of the open grave she so feared. While she touched the pipe surrounding her in horrified apprehension, the Scarecrow, still scowling, snarled at her:
'And just for that little remark, just for that...'
He placed the cover of a crate on top of the pipe, blocking any light.
'Let's see how you like the dark, shall we? And now, please excuse me, as I really must hurry for a prior engagement... Goodbye.'
The Scarecrow brushed his coat down with his hands, picked up the briefcase and hurried towards the train station. As he went down the stairs, he heard a muffled wail behind him.
'Scaredy cat...' he muttered viciously.
