Chapter 2: Family History

Gotham City – Wayne Manor

Alfred Pennyworth walked swiftly and silently down the opulent hallway leading to the library of Wayne Manor. He was dressed in his usual, impeccable dark suit, and carried a silver tea service in his white-gloved hands. As he walked his every movement demonstrated an unmistakable grace and dignity that any educated observer would recognize as marking a butler of the highest quality.

Alfred knew his employer's schedule precisely, and so knew that he usually took his mid-morning refreshment in the study or in the Batcave. However, today was the first time he could recall that he asked for it to be delivered to the library instead. Mr. Bruce Wayne typically did not spend his work or leisure time there, although he possessed one of the finest private libraries in the nation. Occasionally scholars from all over the world requested access to the Wayne Library, which possessed many rare first editions, and early books on science and history; however, such permission was rarely granted due to the billionaire's desire for privacy, which only enhanced his reputation as something of a recluse. Unfortunately, Mr. Wayne himself hardly seemed interested in the many priceless volumes he owned, which Alfred privately thought was a shame.

Perhaps, Alfred thought brightly, today marked a change for the better.

Alfred entered the library, a large and high-ceilinged room lined with massive bookcases, each one fully filled with volumes. Framed lithographs, antique maps, and oil portraits of long-dead Wayne family patriarchs adorned the creme-papered walls. Large leather chairs, ornate lamps and antique desks gave the room the air of a venerable university study.

Alfred looked around inquiringly, but at first he did not see him. He frowned, hoping that the young man had not gotten bored already and left. Sometimes Mr. Wayne had the decidedly annoying habit of abruptly changing his plans, and not informing him.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred called out, "I've brought your tea."

"Thanks, Alfred, can you set it down by the window?"

Alfred looked up and his heart gave a slight jump. Young Master Bruce, still clad in his dressing-gown, was balanced precariously on the top rung of a roll-ladder, straining to reach something on top of one of the tall bookcases. It was just out of the reach of his fingertips, but he kept straining for it.

"Oh! Master Bruce, do be careful!"

"I will, don't worry about…ulp!"

Just as Bruce's fingers snagged the box he was reaching for, his foot slipped off the ladder. He grabbed wildly at the rungs, but he lost his balance again and fell, landing awkwardly with a grunt atop a desk with its piles of books and papers, sending them flying amidst a cloud of dust rhinos.

"Oh dear! Master Bruce, are you all right?"

Alfred quickly set down the tray and hurried to Bruce's side, pulling out his silk handkerchief. He immediately began brushing away the thick dust rhinos from the handsome young man's clothes as he picked himself up with some embarrassment, wincing.

"I'm fine, Alfred, except for my dignity…oww!" He rubbed the small of his back. He'd probably find a bruise on his coccyx later.

"Yes, it would be quite the tragedy if you had broken your neck in such a fashion! I do wish you'd have informed me first before you went on your climbing expedition, I could have properly retrieved the materials you needed, rather than see you pointlessly injured."

"I'm all right, Alfred." Bruce insisted.

"If you say so, sir. Might I inquire as to the nature of your explorations? Perhaps I may be of assistance."

But Bruce was already bending down to pick up the scattered books and papers off the floor, setting them back on the table, trying to put them in some sort of order.

"I'm just sorting through the old family documents. I'd remembered that there were these diaries and old journals that Mom and Dad kept up here."

Alfred's voice suddenly took on a lighter tone, as Bruce's new interest met with his approval.

"Ah yes, sir, the section reserved for the personal family papers. I'm pleased to see you are taking an interest in your illustrious family's history. As I recall, your father inherited from his father a substantial amount of genealogical research concerning the Wayne family and its relations. Quite substantial!"

Alfred continued on a scholarly tone as Bruce continued to pick up all the dropped materials onto the desk.

"Yes, the Wayne family belonged to some of the oldest established families of New England, together with the Curwens, the Tillinghasts, the Carters, among others. They came to the New World from England, shortly after the Mayflower landing, and settled from Vermont to Massachusetts, down to the Carolinas, since the early 1600s. One branch of the Wayne family settled in Gotham at its founding. Your family and those other old families established many links with one other, dynastic marriages and the like, and of course became quite wealthy. Sadly, many of these ancient family lines have since become extinct."

"Is that right?" Bruce frowned at the enormous pile of dusty old books, boxes, and papers, barely hearing Alfred. This was going to be a challenge!

"Oh, yes. I'm afraid none of those old families were particularly fecund, including the Waynes," Alfred added pointedly, clearing his throat discreetly. "Now if you yourself, sir, were to continue with your family's legacy…"

"I remember coming in here once as a boy," Bruce interrupted, anticipating that Alfred was going to lecture him about settling down. Why did everyone think he was a playboy? And what was wrong with that, anyway? "Dad discouraged me from coming in here and mucking about with all this old stuff."

"You possess a valuable selection of papers, here sir, of much historical value, as well as the family history. Your father took quite an interest in genealogy himself. It's a popular hobby, as I understand, but it takes a great deal of time to conduct research, which he didn't have, as he had to attend to his businesses. He also said it was rather depressing, as I recall."

Bruce turned to Alfred in surprise. "Did he? Why did he say that?"

"Family history can uncover unpleasant details," Alfred explained. "Details that one might find embarrassing, or distasteful. I believe Mr. Wayne discovered that one ancestor was a hanging judge during the witch trials, and another was personally responsible for ordering several Native American massacres. Not everyone finds something to be proud of, sir."

"Is that right?" Bruce sighed and turned back to the messy pile on his desk. "I suppose I'll have to steel myself for some strange revelations, then."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. Bruce hadn't really explained exactly why he was going through these old papers, but it wasn't his place to pry…not just yet.

"Well…will there be anything else, Master Bruce? Do you wish my assistance?"

"Um, no, thank you Alfred…oh, and clear my schedule for today, please. I will be taking some time with this."

"Yes, sir. Ah, I should inform you that a reporter from the Daily World has requested a meeting with you."

Bruce turned around sharply. "What? From that tabloid?"

Alfred's expression suggested that he found this type of media distasteful, at the least.

"Yes, a one 'Mr. Olsen.' He actually came here in person, right to the door, and had the temerity to leave his card! I said that you were unavailable, and would be so in the future."

Bruce frowned. Why this sudden interest? "That will be all, Alfred."

"Very good, sir." Alfred gave a crisp bow and left.

In truth, Bruce Wayne already suspected that the Wayne family had plenty of skeletons in its closet (what family didn't?) but the real reason he had decided to spend the day in here…

It began after he'd debriefed Superman and Wonder Woman following their strange experience in Smallville. Both had agreed that the creature they fought was called a shoggoth. Their story was that a college professor, one Dr. Will Richardson, the husband of Clark's old high school friend Lana, had named it such, and also that it was he who was responsible for its attack. It had dwelled beneath an abandoned building known locally as the Red House, perhaps originally summoned there by an old cult known as the Church of Starry Wisdom, which used to occupy the house in the 1920s. Somehow, this Dr. Richardson had learned about the building's history and the thing under it, and unleashed it, for purposes that weren't entirely clear, other than the fact that he was clearly insane. He had killed his wife and attacked Diana, stabbing her with a weapon of unknown power. Diana had killed him, but it was not clear whether or not she and Superman actually killed the shoggoth.

To add to the weirdness, one of Diana's Amazon people appeared out of the blue. Bruce remembered her, a sour-faced older woman who wasn't exactly overjoyed to learn that Diana had eloped with a one Clark Kent aka Superman. At the time Bruce himself had been unhappy with Clark and Diana, and told the Amazon (Gorgo was her name) where to find them in Smallville. Later, Bruce had regretted that, but it turned out to be a lifesaving decision. Gorgo had promptly gone to Smallville armed with some kind of mysterious and powerful weapon from Themyscira. She had intended to use it against Superman, but used it against the shoggoth instead. It was the only thing able to apparently wound and discombobulate it. Clark, who was badly wounded by it, as was Diana, said he saw remnants of it streaming back towards the Red House, where it had disappeared.

He and Flash had arrived just after that. While Flash searched the surrounding area, he had gone to the devastated Red House, and its odd clock-tower, to look for it. He had thought he had seen something in there, but he couldn't be sure of what he had seen...shapes which clung to the high walls near the top, and changed colors and pulsated oddly, bizarre shapes that moved with intelligence, and made a strange buzzing noise...but then they had disappeared. Then, he couldn't even be sure he had actually seen anything, or be certain if it was the shoggoth itself. Flash had not found anything either. Gorgo was killed in the battle, so she wasn't able to shed any more light on the matter. Clark and Diana didn't know any more. They couldn't even say whether the shoggoth was alien or some terrestrial monster.

While they recuperated, Bruce had done some investigating of his own. The police had searched Richardson's house and found nothing "suspicious." But he'd learned that some unknown government "officials" had gotten to Richardson's university office and confiscated certain materials. Through certain channels, Bruce knew it was not anyone from A.R.G.U.S.

Disquieting.

The police dismissed the whole event as a drug gang cooking meth in the Red House, and Richardson's family and the cops were caught up in the explosion. Bruce himself had helped create that scenario for the police; he preferred that explanation than civilians flipping out over…whatever it was. The shoggoth had not reappeared.

He was disturbed by the whole story, and he knew that there was something more to it. He was sure that Superman and Wonder Woman had told him all they could. But that was not what unsettled him, that someone else might be snooping in on this story, nor the fact that during the same time period there had been an unexplained riot at Arkham Asylum, which had needed something stronger than water-cannons to put down. What unsettled him was the realization that he had heard the word shoggoth before.

Bruce Wayne had an excellent memory, and while he had cause to curse it on occasion, it meant that he could easily recall names and places. He was certain he had heard, or read, the word shoggoth somewhere before, but where?

It did not come to him until after Superman and Wonder Woman had departed for the Fortress of Solitude the other day. Then he remembered.

It was here, in his own home, in this very library.

Once, when he was a boy, before the tragedy, he sometimes wandered into the library to play. Dad had kept all the family documents in here, all the old papers and journal and diaries he'd inherited from his own father, who apparently never threw anything away, including stuff which had belonged to all sorts of relatives, near and distant, in the name of 'family and historical relevancy.' Dad didn't want him damaging them, so he'd put them high up where he couldn't reach them. But before that, he'd searched for something fun to read. He had gone through some of these old books, first finding Jules Verne, Edgar Rice Burroughs, H.G. Wells (they had all the first editions). Then, he'd come across the journals of some distant relative who had written some very strange things…stories of adventures in strange lands, meeting strange beings, similar to those old fantasy novels, but different in some dark way. They seemed more real, and the way they were written suggested that these things had actually happened to him. He remembered asking Dad about them, but he only laughed and remarked that they had had lots of nutty relatives. He had never seen any of those old books again. But, he was certain he had come across the word shoggoth in those books; the name suggested something from a nightmare. Could it be possible that someone had encountered that thing before? He had to find out and learn as much as possible, in case they encountered it again.

The problem was that none of this crap had ever been categorized in any order. It took Bruce a lot of time just to separate the letters from the journals from random newspaper clippings, from chapbooks and random miscellaneous pieces of paper. Most of it was absolutely useless: old advertisements from the 1920s, essays written by old spinster great-aunts on the evils of alcohol, jazz music, and dancing, mildewed old letters filled with nothing except boring business notations. Bruce made a note to himself to have Alfred donate some of this stuff to a historical society, since it wasn't doing any good here. Finally, after several fruitless hours, he thought he finally found what he was looking for.

It was an old leatherbound journal, its spine broken and peeling, but still somewhat intact. Inside, written on the initial page:

Journal of Randolph Carter, Resident, Boston, Arkham.

Somehow, he knew this was what he was looking for. There was a stack of them, dusty to the touch, with that particularly old smell, marked with the name Randolph Carter. The name was somehow familiar. Bruce had found one of his family's genealogical charts, and knew that this Randolph Carter was a second great-grandcousin, or something like that. The Carter family was distantly related to the Wayne family but it seemed like the Carter line had died out with this Randolph Carter.

Bruce opened the journal. The pages looked as if it had fallen out and were carelessly replaced. He tried to find dates and locate the word he was looking for. Another problem was that the journal was handwritten, in a fine thin script, back in a time when good cursive writing was considered a worthwhile skill (unlike today's texting mindset). This meant it wasn't exactly easy to read. He started from the beginning.

June 18, 1924

It was on the return voyage from Egypt that I and my traveling companion, Etienne-Laurent de Marigny, experienced such a bizarre encounter that I fear none should believe us even as I submit it to this journal, I do so only that future generations might read this account, and others I have penned within…

There was only a scrap of this page left. The next page seemed to come from a different year.

May 10th, 1890

...and what man knows Kadath? I say I will one day journey past the plateau of Leng and thence to unknown Kadath itself! If anyone should ask me where Kadath is, I would reply, it is only in dreams that one should journey to the village of Ulthar and then inquire of the burgesses there...

And the next page after that...there it was.

...it was then that I saw a shoggoth for the first time, and it set me awake with much screaming. But I quickly recovered, and continued to make plans with my friend, Harley Warren, regarding his desire to explore a...

Frustratingly, he didn't describe what he had seen (or dreamed) but Bruce continued to read the rest of the papers enclosed within the journal, hoping Carter might mention it again in detail. What he read captivated him, until the shadows lengthened in the vast library.

August 11, 1919

My comrade and brother-in-arms, Etienne-Laurent de Marigny, recently received his honorable discharge from the Foreign Legion, and I remade his acquaintance as he took up a position as professor of anthropology at the Sorbonne. We had served together at the Battle of the Somme, where he personally won the the Croix de Guerre for destroying a German machine-gun emplacement. He also took me out of the barrage after I had been grievously wounded about the head, and brought me to a medical facility staffed by his countrymen, rather than leave me at the Canadian field-hospital, where a one Dr. West was later arraigned for certain egregious cases of malpractice, which I shudder to think that I may have become a victim of...

Bruce spent the next few minutes excitedly reading this journal. It was exactly as he remembered, the journal reading as if it were an actual travelogue of fantastic and strange places. He searched for any more mention of the shoggoth, but although he was certain it came from these journals of this relative, he had to find the passage. The difficulty was that all so many of the pages had either been lost or misplaced, so that none of the dates seemed to be in order. Then, as before, he got caught up in reading. He came across this summer 1924 entry:

We had booked passage on the SS Olney, a tramp steamer voyaging from Alexandria to Kingsport. The crew, excepting its captain, were a dissolute bunch, a mongrel mixture of polyglot sailors but due to our desire to avoid any attention following our exploits in the deserts near the Pyramids, it suited our purposes to be traveling in this manner. We were making good time, and the sea voyage had so far been uneventful until the night of... (passage here smudged and unreadable)

...Old Tom suddenly appeared in my cabin, and proceeded to deliver such a startling warning to me, that I fair was reluctant to believe it, but events soon proved his truthfulness. Then, de Marigny entered my cabin right after, saying that we had unexpectedly stopped, and he did not know the reason for it. We were in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea and not near any land, so there was no reason for us to stop. Together we proceeded to investigation the reason for this unexpected interruption...(more smudged passages)

...We were joined by young Joyner, the cabin boy, a lad of perhaps 12 or 13 years. He was understandably upset, and it was he who led us surreptitiously to the main deck, from which he himself had fled. Then, what should our eyes fall upon was a sight that would not seem out of place in the writings of de Sade. The ship's crew, were to a man, disporting themselves in a most base fashion with women who had certainly not been aboard prior to our departing Alexandria. These were beings of definitely human appearance, quite beautiful in the classical sense, yet their manner belied their humanity, as, bereft of any article of clothing whatsoever, they used this depraved and ancient lure to seduce the hapless crew, and were now engaged with them in acts of carnality which I shall not further describe. When I indignantly inquired of the cabin boy as to why the ship's captain had not prevented this from happening, the poor lad whimpered that it was the First Mate himself who had murdered the captain, knifing him in the back, when he had attempted to repel these unnatural women from boarding the ship. No doubt the degenerate First Mate had done so in order that he and his fellows might take bask in the attentions of these succubi, of which there can be no doubt as to what these beings were.

My friend de Marigny was most outraged, and proposed some course of action by which we could stop this, but I had already observed that these women, if could be described as of the fairer sex, were most unnatural, and Joyner agreed with me, reporting to us that the crew from almost the beginning seemed to be swallowed up in a trance. I inquired as to how they had gained access to the ship and Joyner firmly stated that he had seen them appear as if out of nowhere, climbing aboard from boats with hooks and rope-ladders which they had secured alongside the steamer...(missing half a page)

...We might have been discovered by these foul creatures, for a few of them seemed to be always on the alert and watchful for such of the crew which might have escaped their seductions, if it were not for Old Tom, who led us by a way which we could evade them without being detected. We soon saw to our dismay that they had disabled the life raft, revealing no less as if they had proclaimed it aloud their dark purposes, once they had done with the crew. But Old Tom, the wily old gentleman, managed to create a diversion by which we were able to effect an escape by slipping over the side and appropriating one of the same longboats by which these sinister women approached the Olney. We cut the lines and made our departure, taking our chances on the open sea. Using methods I had learned in my dream-quests, I created a concealing fog by which we would not be seen by any of their lookouts. We had managed to take just enough food and fresh water with us so we could survive until reaching land.

"Is there nothing that can be done for the poor devils?" de Marigny inquired of me once we were clear of the ship. For although the crew were of the dregs of humanity, neither of us wished to see them come to some foul end at the hands of such monsters.

No sooner had my friend uttered those words, when we heard the most piteous cries and screams, intermixed with sailor's curses, coming from the direction of the doomed ship. A pious Catholic, he crossed himself, and uttering no mean oaths himself, wondered what had befallen the crew.

I lifted a canvas net which lay over the bottom of our boat. It revealed exactly by which means the sailors had met their ends. Weapons, of an ancient Greek design, suchike not seen for 3,000 years, lay ready and sharpened for use. I then wondered as to the identity of these horrible creatures...(torn page)

After much privations we were picked up by a passing yacht and taken to the nearest port. de Marigny and I recovered quite readily but poor young Joyner, whose health was not good to begin with, succumbed to a fever picked up in hospital. As he had no family, we paid for his burial expenses and my friend paid for a Mass, since he subscribed to such beliefs. For myself, I blamed his death solidly on those violent and dissolute women, whom I am convinced have for many centuries plied the seas for fresh victims. Whatever I can do to curtail their mischief, I shall do without fail, and with retribution for...

End of journal.

Even more disquieting.

Bruce had brought his laptop (the library was equipped with WiFi), and began a search on ships lost at sea, or ships with missing crews, beginning with the last century. He found actually very few hits, the most famous being the case of the Mary Celeste. He tapped into databases at the Library of Congress looking for dates that coincided with the date of the journal. He found an article from the New York Times, dated, July 25, 1924:

Mysterious Disappearance of the Crew of the SS Olney!

Authorities discovered a tramp steamer adrift in the Mediterranean Sea. The SS Olney, which departed Cairo, Egypt, was destined for America with a cargo of Egyptian cotton, yet for unknown reasons, never made her port. The Olney had a crew of fifteen souls, but no living thing was found aboard by police, except for the ship's cat, affectionately listed in the Captain's Log as "Old Tom." No clue could be found as for the reasons for the vanished crew, and no adequate reason provided for her abandonment. Weather conditions were reported fair. A lifeboat was discovered missing, suggesting that at least some of the crew did in fact abandon ship. Investigations have so far been fruitless, and speculation of piracy may not be farfetched...

'Old Tom' was the ship's cat? The fact that Carter wrote about having conversations with a feline was beyond strange. Perhaps Dad was right, and their ancestors were a bunch of nuts (no doubt continued on - he would most definitely include himself in that categorization), and perhaps this journal was just the rantings of a mentally ill man...if it weren't for the name of the shoggoth. But the other things he had uncovered...he couldn't just dismiss them. The disappearance of the Olney's crew was not a figment of imagination, and although he could find no other mention of the Olney, Bruce collated his data and discovered that the incidents of vanished crews at sea seemed to follow certain peaks occurring at roughly three times during the past 100 years. Although he probably couldn't acquire the data, no doubt similar events had happened in the 1700s, 1600s...and further back.

Bruce quickly went through the remaining three or four journals. It seemed that Carter did not describe his adventure on the ill-fated ship in any more detail. He had to wait until the final journal to find the final reference.

July 1, 1925

...de Marigny and I are convinced that the monstrous women that we encountered on the Olney may in fact not be succubi, but instead a remnant of a long-lost race of warrior women, once mentioned by Homer and the ancient Greeks. Perhaps this is how they maintain their numbers, through such modern-day horrors, just as their ancestors had done. If so, they will remain a threat to all humanity until discovered and eradicated. However, this is easier said than done, as we still possess no clue as to exactly where there present-day whereabouts may lie, but I suspect that I shall be able to deduce their location through my own methods. de Marigny wishes that I would desist, and perhaps I shall, if it were not for the immediate threat to the waking world. For now, I am still preoccupied with my quest for unknown Kadath, so such inquiries must await the future. However, I confided to my friend my fears that these women may also visit the waking world in disguise, perhaps for other nefarious purposes. de Marigny made researches of his own in the Sorbonne's extensive libraries and theorized that such creatures may be distinguished from normal women by scarifications upon their physical form. Although, he stated, it was a myth of the later Greeks that alleged the Amazons severed their left breast in order to draw the bow, they possibly did mark or scar themselves in that area to identify themselves, or prove that they had taken a human head...

End of journal.

Bruce searched for the name Etienne-Laurent de Marigny. He was also not a figment of Carter's imagination but an actual former professor of Anthropology at the University of the Sorbonne. He died in 1946, a decorated member of the French Resistance and a World War I veteran, with nothing apparently out of the ordinary in his life. He searched for Randolph Carter. Much less information, other than supposedly deceased in 1928, left de Marigny as inheritor of his estate, contested by a cousin, one Aspinall, whom apparently was related to the Waynes on the maternal side. Carter was labeled deceased because he had vanished from his lodgings in Boston but his body was never found, but he was presumed dead. It was also presumed he suffered from some kind of mental illness in his later years, perhaps due to his war wound.

Bruce sat back in his high-backed chair, chin in hand, deep in thought, considering what he had just read. He sat there for a long time, thinking.

He thought about Diana.

Bruce had known Diana for years. He considered her a friend, and thought that she might think of him the same way. He was well-aware she could be violent to the point of killing (and had done so on more than occasion), and she had quite a temper when provoked. But he also knew she was devoted to the principles of the Justice League, devoted to her friends, and had a powerful sense of honor, loyalty, and justice. She was devoted to the ideals of helping people, and trying to make a better world for all, women and men.

She was also an Amazon.

A princess of the Amazons. Other than that grim old lady he'd met, she was the only Amazon he had ever met. No one knew anything other of the Amazons other than what she told them. If what this journal suggested was true (and his great third cousin or whatever wasn't totally crazy), Diana came from a very dangerous gang, indeed. But, then, some part of him already knew that. But what part of her was which? How true was Carter's statement? His friend was going to Themyscira the day after tomorrow. What was he walking into? And how much did Diana know? If Carter's story was true as he'd described it, and Diana didn't know of this, it meant that there were things her own people kept from her. However, if she did know...and said nothing...

Alfred was only partially right, Bruce thought grimly, family history could not only be distasteful...it could be dangerous.


Lots of name-dropping here ;) Looks like Bats is getting suspicious.

Thanks for reading and please review :D

*Scene and names influenced by

WW #7 (New 52)

By Lovecraft:

The Statement of Randolph Carter

Through the Gates of the Silver Key

Herbert West - Reanimator (read it, watch the awesomely craptastic movie!)