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: Mnemophobia is a fear of memories. Each chapter is 'dedicated' to a phobia, this particular one is Crane's own.
Tattie bogle means 'Scarecrow' in Scottish.

Special thanks to Carycomic for the reviews - your associations are hilarious!

Chapter Two: Mnemophobia

Gotham City sprawled across the flat landscape, an industrial center of international proportions, home to of more than ten million inhabitants.
Tonight, one of them was missing, a police hunt for the individual being carried out in down-town quarters.
Word had it that the Scarecrow, who had been at large for nearly three months, had assaulted a gentleman in his very house. The GCPD had gladly grabbed its first real opportunity to attempt tracing the criminal's whereabouts.
They didn't know yet that the Scarecrow had left the city. Only the Dark Knight held this information currently, and he was busy enough searching for someone personally more important to him.
There was no need for the city to worry, though.
The Dark Knight knew the exact location of the Scarecrow and it wasn't likely that he was going anywhere, beaten and bound up as he had been left.

Outside of Gotham City, in the western region of the state of Gotham, lay a vast plain which had in recent decades become a patchwork quilt of satellite towns, cross country roads and crop fields.
Quite imaginatively, it had been named the Gotham Plain.

In the midst of an impressive acreage of corn crops ran the smallest local road in the area.
On this night, the wind whistled through the corn stalks and the rain drummed an impatient tattoo on the leaves. An occasional owl shrieked as it passed, but apart from that, it was calm. In such weather most creatures stayed hidden.
An unhappy raven, sitting huddled on a pole, opened a yellow eye warily. The peace of the night was being disturbed by a jarring, repetitive noise.
The high-pitched creak of a rusty bicycle marked the arrival to the scene of Professor Dr Jonathan Crane, whose luck could not get much worse.

He got off the bike to maneuver around a large puddle of mud, muttering curses under his breath.
He had just mounted the bike to resume his way, when, without much ceremony, one of the wheels chose that moment to expire.
Crane screamed vengeance at the sky. He kicked at the worthless thing until some of his fast-accumulating rage was vented.
Most people would have given up by that point, but if Crane had been the type of person to let despair and cursed luck stop his intentions, he would have jumped off Wayne Industries Tower long ago to spare himself time and energy.

***

He doggedly continued on foot, gritting his teeth. There had to be somewhere to hide in this awful, seemingly unending place, sooner or later he'd reach a form of civilisation. Following the road which was now deteriorating into merely a wide track, Crane spotted a van parked by it.
That would do fine as well. He peeked through the windshield. Useless, the keys were missing. So was the driver.
Crane looked around, wondering why they had left. He soon saw a hulking young man kneeling on the grass near the van. Perhaps he felt ill from the bumpy road and had stopped to get some fresh air.
In any case, the professor came to the sad conclusion that his last chance of escape now lay with hitch-hiking.

Crane approached the youth quietly. He cleared his throat uncertainly and politely asked:
'Excuse me? Are you feeling alright?'

The man started in surprise and whipped his head around towards Crane. The professor took a step back; the owner of the van stank of liquor and his eyes were slightly unfocused. He was wearing a silly grin on his face and mumbled happily to himself:

'Stuff's good... 'S stronger-er than I th... thought! F'r minute there I 'eard Maggy's scarecrow talkin'...'

Crane looked behind the drunk and saw a real scarecrow placed at the center of the field they were standing in. It was wearing an old pair of trousers and a jolly straw hat.
He realised too late that he'd forgotten to take his own scarecrow mask off, having gotten so used to having it on.
The man unexpectedly took hold of his shoulder to support himself and Crane slapped his hand away.

'Get off me, you drunken idiot!'

The man's eyes popped wide open and he gaped like a dead fish. He pointed at Crane, his finger trembling.

'You… You're alive!'

'Of course I'm alive, fool! Now if you could give me a lift to the nearest town, I'd be −'

The man dropped to his knees and grabbed Crane's shirt.

'Don't hurt me! I didn' know you'd come back an' haunt me! I was drunk!'

'What the… Unhand me! What are you talking about?!'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I shouldn't of poured beer all over you last year! An', an' that time Jack and Earl and…' the drunk swallowed nervously, '…me hung you up on the loft, I didn't know…'

Crane pushed the raving drunk away.

'I can see you're ang…angry. Is it the time I was drunk and thought you was a tree and I…'

'Silence!' Crane cut him short and took his sack mask off with one hand, the other outstretched to keep the dreadful man at bay. The big oaf screamed in terror.

It was the first time anybody had been more afraid of Crane's real face than his mask. He felt at a loss what to feel.

'Oh, gawd, you scared me! I thought you were a scare−'

'Yes, yes, I heard your nonsense! Now stop raving, get into the van and take us to whatever benighted town is nearest! On second thought, just get in and let me drive.'

***

Crane drove slowly for nearly an hour across muddy tracks before they reached the first houses. He'd had to press the breaks abruptly at one point, when the brute had threatened to be sick on his beloved burlap mask. He had trouble starting the van afterwards, but the mask had been saved. He'd locked it securely into the briefcase after that.

'Thanks for taking me back to town, man. Dunno how I would have gotten back like this. Oh, gawd, my head hurts...'

'You banged it on the dashboard when you nearly desecrated my belongings. Is there any hotel I could stay in for the night?'

'There's a bed and breakfast down the road. You here for the festival? You sure came a bit early...'

'What? What festival? Oh, that's right. Um, yes, I suppose I am. Never mind. Good night to you, boy.'

Crane left the van and rang the doorbell of the bed and breakfast.
It took several minutes for an elderly woman to come to the door and let him in.
He explained he had been caught in the bad weather, as he caught her openly staring at his dirty appearance. Crane signed himself into the register as Jonathan Tattiebogle and hastily retreated into his 'delightfully old-world' room.
It looked merely old to Crane and as he was not in a delighted mood anyway, he just slumped his messy coat onto a chair before climbing into bed.
He had hidden his treasured briefcase behind a wooden panel in case the old crone decided to poke her nose into his business. She had seemed the sort.

Crane fell into a deep stupor within minutes. He twitched in his sleep, dreaming of bats and filth, pain and horrifying, delicious fear...

***

Jonathan Crane awoke with a start. He had been dreaming of falling off a speeding train. It took him a few moments to recall the events of the previous night and realise he had actually experienced the nightmare in reality.
He groaned; his entire body was stiff with dull pain. Some of his muscles that he hadn't even known existed were hurting.

He rose from the bed slowly and was shocked to find his clothes clean and neatly folded on the chair. Someone had invaded his privacy and had sorted through his personal belongings!
Crane decided he would immediately go downstairs and give the nosy owner of the B&B a piece of his mind. She was the one no doubt responsible for this outrage.

He suddenly remembered to check on the hiding place of the briefcase containing his greatest secrets – the mask and the stolen money.
Relieved to find the briefcase untouched, Crane clothed himself more calmly.

He had to admit, his shirt smelt fresher than it had in quite a while. It smelt like the nice, clean shirt that deserved to be worn by a man with a doctorate in psychology.

Less driven by rage than a minute ago, Crane descended to the reception desk. He noticed that it was rather dark outside and hesitated to ring the little bell on the desk. Waking the owner before dawn was rather impolite.
It struck him that shifting through unsuspecting guests' rooms was even less morally acceptable and he rang the bell four times.
The little woman entered the house from the front porch, holding a mug of tea in one hand. Crane nodded to her and brusquely stated:

'Good morning, madam.'

'It is a good evening, dear.'

'Sorry?'

'You've slept the entire day away. You didn't come down for breakfast and I went in to check on you at noon. I was worried you might have died', she added with a hint of disapproval, as though she considered dying in her establishment a personal offence.

'The entire day? Oh...' A horrible thought struck Crane. He felt panic rise in his insides. He quietly asked:

'Has anyone come asking for me?'

'I don't believe so. Should they have?' The old woman gazed in confusion at Crane through her large glasses.

'No, no, it was just a passing thought. In fact, I expect I'd already know by now if they had. What was it I needed? Yes! You washed my clothes while I was asleep!'

'You're welcome, dear. They were quite muddy, weren't they?'

'Yes. No! I mean, you touched my things without my knowing!'

'Oh, I am sorry. I forgot to tell you that cleaning is included in our personalised service. We aim for a friendly and wholesome atmosphere, y'know. Also, the coat had to be sent to the dry cleaner's. That's not included into the price. You can pick it up tomorrow. I hope it hasn't fallen apart', she sniffed.

'Pray, what did that comment mean?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing, dear.'

'I'll have you know that it's a coat of very good quality. It's...' Crane searched for words to positively describe his patched and frayed scarecrow coat.

'Shabby chic?' The old lady tactfully offered.

'Indeed!' The professor exclaimed. He stood in the hallway, uncertain what to say next. The woman caught his expression and shuffled towards a door in the hallway. She waved at him to follow her into a dining room.

'Here. I could heat up your breakfast now; if you're hungry, that is?'

Crane beamed. He had a small appetite and typically forgot to eat regularly, but right now he could certainly do with some nourishment.

It turned out to be cornflakes.

Jonathan Crane was slightly sick of corn. For some strange reason it always featured largely on his menu at Arkham.
Perhaps they thought it cheered him up.
He managed to negotiate for a cheese and tomato sandwich. It was surprisingly rather good.
He ate it thankfully and retreated into his room, carrying with him some brochures of the local community he had been given.

Crane sat on his bed and read the leaflets, hoping to find out more about his current hideaway.