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: Athazagoraphobia is a fear of being forgotten or ignored or forgetting. It is the longest and oddest sounding phobia I'll be using for a chapter title.
I probably brutally ruined the real facts of Crane's childhood story for this one. I tried to insert something simplified for the scene.

Thanks for every single comment, I must have some of the best and nicest readers out there! Thanks for putting so much into your comments, it's joy to know there are people out there reading this.

To Trumpeteer34 and Rocku: I'm glad you liked the scenery at the end of the last chapter. By coincidence, there's another one in this chapter, too.
To ColinatorGX: Thanks for the great comment, I enjoy Crane's complicated psyche, too.
To AZ-woodbomb: I'm glad you liked the fisticuffs scene, there won't be such similar situations for now, but as Crane has a way of building up negativity around him...
To Carycomic: I've said it before, I'll say it again. Your comment is pure awesomeness.

Chapter Four: Athazagoraphobia

Ms Elisabeth Tembrooke walked through the front door of her establishment and took off her muddy wellington boots in the hall.
She had already been to the shop in the morning and had now been feeding the chickens. She put on her sensible black shoes and draped a drab shawl around her shoulders.
The wind was howling outside today and it reached right into her rheumatic bones.
Walking slowly towards the kitchen, she heard a consistent knocking noise coming from outside. Ms Beth made her way to the porch and stood on the grass in the backyard, leaning against a tree. Her lips smiled in private amusement.

Professor Tattiebogle was fixing her scarecrow.

Jonathan Crane hammered down the last nail into the wooden plank which held the scarecrow up.
He had clothed the thing in dark rags, instead of the faded overalls it had been wearing prior to his interventions. Next he'd reinforced the structure and had made the bodywork more intimidating, its arms outstretched and its cape billowing in the wind.
The last improvement had been the sack face.
Crane had gone through an awful lot of burlap masks in his criminal career, as they were often destroyed, lost or taken away from him during arrest. He knew how to make himself a new one with commendable speed and had tried out many different designs, attempting to find out which one was considered the scariest.
He'd put a few moments' thought into this one and had settled for a stitched smile and eerily cut-out eyeholes. He finally attached an old straw hat he'd burnt the edges off, for that extra creepy effect.

He stood back several paces to admire his handiwork.

Ms Beth looked on at the scene.
The professor had been staying at her bed and breakfast for over two weeks now. He'd been getting more and more intense about his work lately, but he'd still insisted on finding time to help her make a better scarecrow for the festival.
The old woman grinned to herself. The thin professor was standing across the field in his old coat, watching the scarecrow in its ragged clothes.
At this distance, the two looked one and the same, two gangly scarecrows having a showdown under the noon sun.

Ms Beth waved over to Crane, walking toward him and clapping loudly.

'Well done! I say, it looks completely different now. I'm a little sorry for the old one, it was a happy old thing!'

'This one's more effective, though, don't you think? I can bet no one here has a scarecrow quite like this one, Ms Beth!'

'Effective? Oh, that it is. Very disturbing. It'll do its job well, I should think!'

'What job?'

'I reckon the kids next door'll think twice before coming here to steal my apples again!' she laughed nastily.

She clapped Crane on the back jovially and winked at the scarecrow on her way back to the house. As she stepped back onto the porch, she called out behind her:

'Coffee before going to the lab, Professor?'

Crane looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor, packing away his equipment. He needed to check the progress of the toxin today, but he would first make another digression.

There was always time for coffee, here.

***

The recently abandoned school was in desperate need of an airing; it smelt faintly of damp and dust.
Crane felt odd walking down the corridors, the ringing noise of his footsteps breaking the silence. In a sense, he felt himself an unwanted presence. He and his toxins didn't belong in these hallways, which were supposed to be filled with crowds and mindless chatter.
The absence of any noise always grated on his nerves after a while.
Reaching the basement level, Crane entered the school laboratory, where he had set up the basis for his chemical production process. He unlocked a cabinet and carefully took out different bottles and vials. He kept all the components under lock, in case anyone else came nosing around and stumbled upon his dirty little secret.

He arranged all the materials neatly onto his work surface and proceeded to gently heat up a vial of watered-down enzymes. He was preparing to synthesize the corticosteroids necessary for fear to be induced by the gas.
They were naturally produced by the human body to react to stress; however, Crane needed to create them in artificial conditions. The reaction he would cause in order to produce the corticosteroids would be catalysed by the enzymes.

Afterwards, he cleaned up the vials. The mixture of corticosteroids was placed into a cool box and locked safely into a metal drawer. In a few days, he would have the first batch of fear gas ready for testing and, eventually, usage. He planned on obtaining a few mice which he could observe after they inhaled the toxin. If they didn't drop dead and were suitably terrified, he would consider the batch completed. After all, he'd gone through the formula so many times, he was already certain of his success.

Crane slowly ascended the school stairway, revelling in the feeling of anticipated accomplishment.
An old newspaper was swept across Crane's path. It was the 'Charleston on the Creek Chronicle', no doubt. They didn't supply Gotham daily papers here, a fact Crane was grateful for. He didn't want the Scarecrow's face on the Wanted page to turn up.
He strolled down the avenue leading from the school, the trees on each side of the way swaying in the wind. Dead autumn leaves whipped around Crane's lanky legs and he shuddered, tugging the collar of his coat up.
He took the shortcut through the cornfields, hoping to reach home before the brewing storm hit the landscape. In the distance, the sky burned orange, flanked to the west with darkening clouds.

Crane stood in front of the improved scarecrow for several moments.

The air was fresh in his nostrils, the atmosphere tense, accumulating the energy of the oncoming storm. He stretched his arms wide apart, imitating the straw man. Crane felt extraordinarily pleased, full of the power that would soon be in his grasp.
He'd found the perfect place to draw upon his self-confidence, he belonged here and now. Crane smiled widely, his face upturned towards the sky. A few droplets of rain pattered onto his face and he opened his blue eyes wide.
For the first time in a long, long time, he felt calm and contented. He only hoped that it would last.

***

Ms Beth fussed over Crane as he was drying his hair out with a pink towel. He'd arrived completely drenched from outside, but he seemed perfectly happy.

'What were you thinking, Professor? Look at the weather outside! You'll get pneumonia now and we'll have to get someone to drive you over to the doctor, and let me tell you, it's no short drive, ever since the Doc closed his practice here, I don't −'

'Shhh. You're ruining the moment.'

'What?'

'Everything's fine now. I know exactly who I am, what I'm going to do, my success lies clear ahead of me!' He waved his hand expressively in the air and leaned back in the living room sofa he was occupying.

Ms Beth's mouth opened in surprise; then her old face wrinkled in a grin. The Professor, it seemed, was near to discovering whatever he'd come to study in Charleston. She sat down next to Crane and nudged him slyly.

'Go on, tell us what your big experiment is all about...'

'It's all about fear.'

'Fear?'

'Yes. Sooner or later, everything is. And there will be justice, too. People talk about mercy, but it's justice that's lacking in this world. Justice needs to be served, even after years of wrongful treatment, don't you think?'

'Why, I suppose so! What're you planning, Jonathan? It's a work of psychology, isn't it? What have you found out? Who'll be afraid, who will get justice?'

Jonathan Crane smiled grimly at the old woman. He muttered:

'Why, the entire town will get what it deserves.'

Old Ms Beth's mind raced. She didn't for a moment suspect the strange look in the professor's eyes.

She knew that he was here for a reason. Not a mundane reason, either.
He'd admitted one day that he had arrived to this particular town by mere chance. Ms Beth was a religious woman. She didn't believe in chances.
She knew now, just knew, that Jonathan had been sent to help the town. He'd discovered something scientific here, he would make a name for Charleston. The politicians and landowners of Gladston would all be afraid. Their plans for the area would be shattered, as Charleston, the eternal underdog, finally got some recognition and justice!
Ms Beth wrung her hands in excitement.

'You're going to be famous! And the town where it all started, too. And no one will ever, ever be forgotten now...'

Crane cocked his head and frowned.

'What are you talking about? Who was going to be forgotten, Ms Beth?'

She blushed crimson and fiddled with her shawl, avoiding Crane's observant glance.

'No one. I was just being silly, that's all.'

'No, no, I'm curious to know now...'

'It's just that I'm... I'm getting old, Jonathan. The Tembrookes have lived here for generations. Now there's only me and my late sister's family, over in Gotham. I've showed you pictures, I think. They visit sometimes, but they're very busy people, you see. I do have friends here, but they'll all move away if the bad situation continues. There's not much work, and since this year, no school or doctor...' Ms Beth swallowed hard. Outside, the rain beat heavily on the windows.

'Pretty soon things will get worse. People will move out, the ones who stay... I know how it goes. People get bitter when they can't change things, Jonathan. They get edgy, intolerant of each other. Am I making any sense?'

Crane looked thoughtfully in front of himself. He finally spoke after a short while, his voice sounding distant:

'I understand. Bitter, frightened people snap easily, don't they? They tear at each others throats, they ridicule each other... Especially those who're too weak to fight back...'

'Yes, that's the truth. Oh! I'm sorry for burdening you, you're not used to listening to an old woman's worries...' Her quavering voice faded into silence.

Crane made a grimace. It was an odd expression, halfway between a smile and a scowl.

'Not at all! You're a coherent thinker. And besides, I was raised by my dear old grandmother, so I am well adapted to, ah, intergenerational understanding.'

Ms Beth looked vaguely relieved. She'd been afraid of sounding like a crazy old bat. Making an attempt at light conversation, to steer away from the painful topic at hand, she inquired politely:

'I bet you enjoyed her company, didn't you? Young children love to spend time with their grandparents, all the stories and sweets −'

'No', Crane interjected. He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned.

'My grandmother was a fanatic. She was strict, prone to beating my knees bloody if I was disobedient, and did her very best to instil the fear of God into me from an early age. I hated her', he said sincerely, brutally.

Ms Beth said nothing. She stared at him, her hand to her mouth.

'Once', Crane snorted, 'She left me locked up in an abandoned church. Except, ahah, up in the rafters, it was filled with great big ravens. I must have disturbed them in some way... They swarmed all over me, I was terrified. She only came after I'd stopped screaming. I swear, I ran out of noise to make... Apparently, it was supposed to be a character-building experience. I've been deadly afraid of frantic, flying creatures ever since.' He turned his eyes to his listener, his face now strangely expressionless.

'What are you afraid of, Ms Beth?'

***

She was worried of losing her friends, of leaving her town.
She was afraid of being left truly alone, the last resident of a dead community.
No one to remember to visit her. No one to recall her name.
And after a while, she'd forget what a normal life looked like.
Most of all, Elisabeth Tembrooke feared, with gut-wrenching dread, of being forgotten.

***

Ms Beth opened her eyes. She'd shut them tight, in order to visualise more clearly all the unspoken worries that sometimes made her feel anxious and snappish.

'It's a fairly well recorded fear, you know', said Crane, closing a small blue notebook Ms Beth hadn't noticed before. He'd been scribbling something down now, it seemed.

'It's called athazagoraphobia. It's possible to overcome it. Perhaps with some pills to help you relax before bedtime, but I personally believe in counselling therapy.'

Ms Beth sighed and got up. The storm was waning and she felt a lot more at ease.

'You know, I feel better already. I've never told anyone before...' She snapped her fingers suddenly.

'Enough of dark thoughts for tonight! I'm going to phone the boys over and see whether I can beat old Grentley at cards again.'

Crane nodded absentmindedly. He was feeling slightly confused for no particular reason.
Ms Beth smiled at him and unexpectedly ruffled his auburn hair.

'You're a kind young man, Jonathan.' She left the room.

Crane looked through the window into the darkness outside. In the distance, thunder still rumbled.

'No', he sighed. 'No, I am not.'