Ernest Steenland sipped at the brandy in his glass as he scanned the evening paper. The headlines declared the suspicious death of Reginald van Horn. Not three weeks prior, the untimely demise of Theodore Wilson Swan by way of electrocution had filled the tabloids, suppressing the usual gossip and vitriol. Now even the broadsheets had joined the furore, raining questions over the identity of this newest killer. Assuming, of course, that he was in any way new. Gotham had its pick of crazed killers.
Of course, the scandal had been the talk of the town. Every luncheon played host to speculation over the debaucheries the two men had been involved in to make themselves a target to such hideous assaults. Ernest found the whole ordeal most distasteful. It was foul-mannered to speak ill of the dead, and they had been upstanding citizens. Members of the board at Gotham University, revered scientists in their own right, they had done more to protect the city than they had to cast a stain upon its reputation.
Yet, they had been men of considerable wealth and influence, and as all men in Gotham in such a position, they had been known to play favourites. As had Ernest himself. Enemies were made easily in Gotham, and as the old adage says, you can't please everyone.
Staring out at the city skyline, Ernest wondered idly: who have I displeased?
"Ernest… Ernest Steenland!" The voice wailed through the house, low and tortured, and with it, Ernest fancied, came the rattle of chains. "Professor Ernest Steenland!"
Hands shaking, Ernest set his glass down on the silver platter. As a man of science, he discounted hauntings and the supernatural as a matter of course, but to deny his fear would be an act of gross misinformation. Pragmatic as ever, the aged professor removed his slippers allowing greater purchase on the polished floors. Then, mindful of his likeness to the Dickensian Ebenezer, he advanced towards the scraping noise emanating from the corridors beyond.
Behind him, the windows onto the veranda crashed open, admitting a howling wind even as the glass shattered and rained down upon the Persian rug. The shrill wind instantly ousted the fire, plunging the room into darkness. Ernest pulled his gown tight around him, and hurried towards the light switch by the door. The bulbs within the chandelier glowed softly, then fizzled out. A moment later, the whole fixture crashed to the floor, spraying yet more glass around the room. He began to regret removing his slipped.
Eyeing the veranda suspiciously, Ernest quietly eased open the door and stepped out into the hallway. A demonic laughter filled his ears the moment the drawing room door clicked shut. The lights flickered on and off, allowing a coil of shadows to rise and fall. Relatives watched him from the portraits, their eyes seeming to move.
Of course, there was nothing otherworldly about these events. Somebody was intentionally attempting to frighten him. And Ernest Steenland would not stand for it. He drew himself up, cleared his throat, and spoke, reedy at first, but quickly gaining authority.
"Who's there? Announce yourself at once! These childish antics shall get you nowhere."
"Is that so, Professor?"
Above him, hanging from the bannister at the top of the stairs, lurked a ghoulish sight. Dressed head to toe in shades of ghostly grey, and swathed in heavy chains, the figure glared down at Ernest from behind a white burlap mask, with a black grimace. A severed noose hung around his neck. White straw hair poked out wildly beneath the grey wide-brimmed hat.
"Your esteemed colleagues had much the same view. But I assure you, my antics are anything but childish."
"What do you want?" Ernest stammered.
"I wanted to show you the fruits of your labours, dear professor. As Marley did for Scrooge. The chains you forged in life." The madman cackled, hefting the two chains that wound around his arms and hung down to the floor. He wielded them like flails. "But fear not. There shall be no ghostly visitations for you. No chance to change your ways. Your fate is sealed."
The figure leaned forward, cackling, eyes bright behind the mask. Spryly, he dropped to the stairs below, the chains grating over the bannister, leaving grooves in the wood. Ernest stumbled backwards, his heart pounding in his chest. As he watched the figure descend the staircase, his vision blurred, and the masked countenance of his assailant warped in the shadowed passage. Before his eyes, flames sprouted along the length of the chains, wrapping themselves like red hot wires around his body. The hat too caught fire, lending a vile backlight to the shifting features of his white mask, the bulging red eyes, the gaping maw which dripped, one moment, with bile, and the next with writhing cockroaches.
"Who- who are you?"
"You don't recognize me? I'm flattered." There was sheer delight in his voice. "You may recall the name, Johnathan Crane."
"Crane?" Ernest repeated in disbelief as the figure advanced. He seemed to grow an inch with every step he took.
"But you may call me Scarecrow."
Ernest turned to run, but his legs had turned to stone, and instead he toppled to the floor, his body twisted to an uncomfortable angle. Behind him the Scarecrow laughed, his flames climbing the walls. Ernest noted in disgust the bloodstains on the Scarecrow's garb. Only now did he see the slick wood panels, coated in crimson streaks.
"Ah, yes, I forgot to mention the fear toxin. Liquid form, secreted in the brandy. Not my preferred method, but it performs admirably. I imagine you're seeing all manner of fantastic visions. If you could describe them to me, it would do wonders for the advancement of my research."
"G-Go – Go to Hell!"
"But, my dear professor," Scarecrow whispered, a snake tongue protruding for the white burlap sack. "We're already there."
Deafening screams rang in Ernest's ears. The family portraits were now windows to the most grotesque scenes of violence, torture and depravity. Snakes hung on thorny branches growing through the ceiling, hissing and dripping venom from their fangs. Arms clawed from the burning walls. Skeletons rested in a pile in the corner.
The Scarecrow cackled again and began to swing the heavy chains, crashing against the walls, and tearing up pieces of the floorboards in a shower of splinters and sawdust. Ernest heard himself cry out, like a distant sound somewhere within a tunnel.
And then smoke filled the air, thick and grey, stinging at his eyes and the back of his throat. The Scarecrow's flaming eyes widened in shock. This wasn't part of the plan. Was that a good sign? Had the police arrived?
Somewhere in the darkness he saw movement, the whirring of leathery wings, the cut and thrust of clawed hands. How much was real and how much was part of the illusion he couldn't say. But one thing he was certain of. His life had just been saved.
Ernest squinted, as if that might somehow dispel the ghastly illusions, and peered deep into the fog. The two combatants danced back and forth, trading blows, the Scarecrow clearly on the defensive. His opponent, a towering black form with leathery wings and red flaming eyes, stayed at arm's length, avoiding the whirring chains, waiting for his opening. When they spoke, the Scarecrow's voice was demonic; the Bat's a monstrous growl.
"How did you find me?"
"I found traces of your fear toxin in van Horn's soup. Once you killed Professor Swan it wasn't much of a leap to look for residents who had specialized in phobias. Your name had a parade of red flags. I knew you'd come for Steenland sooner or later."
"Very clever, Detective. They withdrew the funds to my research. Deigned my experiments unsafe, unethical. They ruined my career. How ironic that the very work they tried to prevent will be their undoing."
"They were right."
"Perhaps. But sometimes, sacrifices must be made in the name of progress. Now I suggest you allow me to take my revenge, or I promise you, Gotham will suffer for it."
"I won't allow it."
A barb shot into the ground between Ernest and the Scarecrow, and the fight ensued, escalated and adjourned to the grounds of the Steenland Estate. Ernest, breathing hard, let his head fall back to the ground, exhausted. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the horrid sounds echoing in his head. As the toxin's effects began to wear off, Ernest fell gratefully to sleep. And when he woke, he hoped, he would forget it all like a bad dream.
Or maybe, he'd change his ways.