That Monday, Crane lectured his class as per usual, but as he spoke, he never stopped assessing Phoebe's condition. "Another common phobia is the fear of bats, something universal to almost any culture," he said aloud. She looked tired, worn out. Dark circles had formed beneath her eyes and she tapped her pen against her desktop nervously. "Most people fear bats because of their symbolism of black magic, madness, and torment. They were often thought to be ghosts or a witch's familiar, believed to be capable of transporting evil spirits into the human body." She looked to be having trouble focusing, very uncharacteristic of her. People would notice.
Crane's brow furrowed at the idea but immediately smoothed as he continued with the lesson. "For the most part, bats owe their malevolent and fear-inducing reputation to their ghastly appearance, avoidance of light, and ability to hunt in total darkness, an environment that sight-oriented humans are naturally afraid of." If Phoebe's behavior was because of the drug, he'd have to find some way to cover it up, hide its cause. The wheels in his head spun furiously to think of something that could produce a stress-induced mental breakdown in someone.
Once again a brilliant, novel, simple idea struck him. Glancing at the clock he saw that only five minutes remained of the class time. Returning his gaze to his students, he cupped a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. "Starting today," he stated, no longer in lecture-mode, "I'd like you all to choose someone you can get close to and observe without their knowing. Watch what they do and take note of their behavior. After you've compiled sufficient data, I'd like you to submit a paper containing your psychological evaluation of the subject. You will have thirty days to complete this project and it by no means frees you from anything I may happen to assign between now and then." He merely had to pile on the homework and no one would doubt that Phoebe had cracked under its pressure. Cocking his head to one side, he clasped his hands behind his back and added, "Good luck." With those final words, the bell rang and the room filled with the usual shuffling of the students leaving the class.
That night, Crane sat once again in his den, this time poring over Cognitive Therapy and the Emotional Disorders by Aaron Beck. Beside the comfy upholstered chair sat his leather briefcase, shining in the bright light of the reading lamp. He was dressed in his usual dress-shirt and tie over which he wore his navy-blue sweater with the patches on the elbows. He wore a pair of simple black slacks and a shining pair of Italian loafers. Pausing, he reached over to the end table and picked up his cup of tea, cautiously sipping the hot liquid. Setting the cup back down, he casually looked at his watch. One-Thirty, he thought absently. I suppose now would be a good time to check on my 'patient'.
Setting the book aside, Crane reached down and grabbed his briefcase by the handle. He rose from the chair and walked out the front door, locking it behind him. Strolling to his car, he tossed the case into the passenger seat and whistled a carefree tune. The black Lincoln roared to life as he keyed the ignition. Crane backed out of the driveway and took off into the city proper.
Minutes later he pulled into the alley beside Phoebe's building and climbed out of the vehicle, looking upward at the crumbling brick facade. A smile curled the edges of his mouth as he gazed at her black window five floors up. Looking about for something to stand on, he spotted an old couch someone had discarded beside a dumpster. Dragging it beneath the fire escape ladder, he took his briefcase in one hand and began to climb, awkwardly. She couldn't live in a one-story, could she? No… he grumbled inwardly as he pulled his wiry form up to the first landing on the escape. Despite his cautious creeping, his footsteps still clanged on the steel platform. His entire body froze as somewhere across the city a police siren blared, then he relaxed and continued up the next ladder. An autumn breeze whipped through the alley, chilling him to the bone as he climbed. Each step was as deafening as thunder in the still air.
Finally he made it to the fifth floor landing and crept over to Phoebe's window. Cupping his hands around his face, he nearly pressed his nose against the glass and peered into her kitchen. The room was dark and all was still. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was now two in the morning. Surely she was asleep. At that, he cautiously made his way down the ladder so that he could make the trip back up the stairs and enter through the front door. Mentally he derided himself for not leaving the briefcase behind in the car until he needed it.
Slowly, cautiously, less than a centimeter at a time, Crane turned the doorknob. A cold sweat ran down his face as he gently eased the door open and slunk into the inky blackness that was Phoebe's bedroom. Over his head he wore the burlap scarecrow mask, his bright blue eyes staring out through the holes, its gruesome, stitched-on smile leering at the girl. Behind that smile, Crane grinned fiendishly as he stood over her bed. He set the briefcase on the carpeted floor and quietly unlatched it, opening it up and removing the bottle of chloroform and a rag. Unscrewing the cap, he held the rag to the bottle and tipped it upside down. Then, cautiously so as not to wake her, he placed the rag over her mouth and nose, gently draping it across her face. He wore the mask in case she woke up, in case she saw him. This way she would not be able to readily identify him.
His heartbeat thudded against his ribcage, counting down the time it took for the anesthetic to take its effect. Then, reaching back down into the briefcase, he took out the needle containing his fear toxin. Tapping the side to dislodge any air bubbles, he stepped over to the foot of her bed and injected her, pressing his thumb down on the plunger. Slowly, the colorless liquid flowed out of the syringe and into her bloodstream. Crane's eyes shone with a strange sort of glee behind the mask. He no longer pitied this girl; she was just an experiment, a means to an end. His shark-like grin grew ever wider as he removed the rag from her slack features. All was going perfectly.
Crossing the room, he sat down in the swivel chair in front of her computer and took out his notepad, waiting for the show to begin. If only I'd brought popcorn. He chuckled softly at the thought. After about ten minutes, Crane pursed his lips in disappointment. "Guess I'll just have to wake her up myself," he sighed, getting up from the chair.
Another vial of smelling salts brought her around quickly enough and she turned a horrified look at his masked visage. "Oh God," she whispered in a small, fearful voice. She began to thrash violently and Crane took a step back to avoid being hit. "No! Stay away!" she screamed at him. She tumbled out of her bed, tangled in the sheets, and he took a step toward her. "Get back!"
Crane decided to interact with her this time. It could prove… interesting, after all. "What's the matter, Phoebe?" he croaked, injecting as much menace into his voice as he could muster. "Aren't you a little old to be scared of the dark?" He reached over and flipped the light switch on and off, just for dramatic effect. Lord knew what she was seeing in her state. She wailed in terror, curling into a ball in the corner. Returning the bedroom to darkness, he started to advance on her, slowly.
Phoebe grabbed the closest thing she could get her hands on, one of those miniature baseball bats they sell at stadiums, and swung it with all of her might, catching Crane in the knee. The doctor's leg buckled beneath him and he let out a startled yelp of pain. Before she could swing again, he rushed her, grabbing her wrist and prying her fingers from the novelty item. "Don't do that again!" he roared into her face and she let out another frightened shriek, trembling uncontrollably in his grasp. He released her and she fell back to the floor, whimpering pathetically. He limped backward, sitting down again and watching her like a hawk.
Something caught her attention because she screamed once more and recoiled from her bed. "No! NO! NO!" she cried, backing away frantically. Crane thought she must have seen something crawling out at her, the "bogey man" perhaps. Or maybe he was the bogey man and this new arrival was merely one of his "minions". The idea was laughable and he threw his head back, laughing hysterically for her. She turned and clawed at the wall, having nowhere to escape to apparently. When that action proved fruitless, she turned on the imaginary source of danger and charged it, swinging her arms viciously. She stumbled over her bed and landed on her back, smacking her head against the bedpost. Crane reflexively winced at the dull crack her skull sounded against the wood. He saw her eyes roll up in her head and then flutter closed as she lapsed into unconsciousness.
"Well good job," he whispered reproachfully. Standing from the computer chair, he limped over to where she lay and dragged her off the floor and onto the bed. Throwing the covers over her, he gathered up his equipment and packed it away into the briefcase, along with the scarecrow mask. Combing a hand through his tousled hair, he replaced his glasses on his face and crept out of the room, eyes narrowing in frustration. Leave it to that clumsy oaf to knock herself out before the drug was finished doing its work, he thought furiously. Next time, he promised himself. Every time he tested the girl, he learned a little bit more. It was only a matter of opportunity.
Except every time he'd tested her, something changed. Not in her reaction, but in his. He'd noticed himself viewing her responses to the therapy less and less in a scientific fashion and more and more in an expectant, gleeful, almost entertained manner. Crane buried the thought, denying that he enjoyed her suffering and telling himself that he was doing it to learn, to help further understand the nature of other people's fears. It's for science, he told himself over and over again as he drove back to his home, repeating it like a mantra until he forced himself to believe it. It's all in the name of science. He was helping people.