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: Boy, am I glad to finally have enough time to be posting this. I intend to be more frequent in updates. Good news, one more half-chapter, then things start to happen.
Oh, yes - this chapter includes a cameo mention of the psychologist Maslow, which shows you how exciting it is. XD

Anuptaphobia is fear of staying single.

To Carycomic: Thank you very much; and portentous is the word to use whenever possible.
To ColinatorGX: Very, very interesting thought, about Crane's weakness. He's always fighting to be tougher than he is. Thanks for the great comment!
To Trumpeteer34: I'm so glad you liked the last line - I really felt it needed to be put in. It's great that you noticed the somewhat more emotional aspect of that chapter.

Chapter Four: Athazagoraphobia (Part 2)

The preparations for the annual Halloween Scarecrow Festival were in full swing. People were using the remaining ten days to place scarecrows in their gardens and fields. Men spent the early evenings after work to help put up the street decorations.
For the last few days, a pair of locals could be seen carrying a stepladder across Main Street, pausing at every house to climb up and hammer down wreaths shaped like smiling pumpkins. Every once in a while one of them would complain about something to their companion and they would end up bickering about the work organisation.
Small children giggled and ran up and down the streets, paying no heed to their mothers' exasperated calls.

Jonathan Crane was busy these days, too. He had completed the corticosteroid secretions and had synthesized potent hallucinogens. The fear toxin was complete.

He was now sitting in Maggy's diner, holding a box of mice in his lap and hastily finishing his broth before going to the lab to test out the toxin.
Maggy and he had reached a tentative truce for the time being.
She was as dumb a girl as he had suspected, but she was surprisingly nice, ever since she had decided not to take Crane's general lack of friendly demeanour to heart.
She trotted over to Crane now, carrying a small plastic bag full of corn and seeds. She had no idea what the professor wanted with it, but she had gone to the shop as instructed.

'Here you go, Professor. If you'll just wait a sec, I'll get your change...'

'Keep it', murmured Crane absently as he now read a small book.

His current literature was called 'Shamrock Tea' and had an interesting effect not unlike the hallucinogens. It always left Crane feeling his brain was fuzzy, but it also gave him a short detachment from his problems.
It had been given to him by Jervis Tetch, known to Gotham as the Mad Hatter. Crane wondered briefly if Jervis was still in Arkham.
He wasn't bad company in Crane's opinion, once you made your utter disinterest in tea parties very clear.

'Wow, five bucks! Thanks, professor Tattiebogle! Did you like your meal?'

Crane emerged suddenly from his mental stupor. Had he just tipped the waitress five dollars?
He sighed resignedly and got up to gradually make way towards the exit. As he rose, he dropped the forgotten box of mice by accident and they escaped, scrabbling across the floor. Maggy screamed like a banshee and gripped Crane's arm until he was certain his blood circulation had been cut off.

'Oh, my gosh! Mice! You brought mice here?! Make them go away!'

'Good grief, child, let go of me!'

Crane managed to catch all but a few, which had completed their Great Escape and were now part of the Main Street bustle.
He exhaled heavily and leaned against a table. Maggy was looking at him with an extremely upset look in her wide dull eyes. He had to remember to note down her fear of mice in his notebook.
It would have been amusing for him, but he hoped she didn't ruin his fun and start crying now.
That would be irritating.

'Look, it's alright now. The nasty mice have gone. Don't... Look, don't start crying! Oh, please, get a grip!'

'Those awful little pink legs! One crawled across my foot! Urgh! What were you carrying them around for?'

'A psychological study. It's complicated, you wouldn't understand. Anyway, no harm done, so I'll be on my way now...'

She sniffled pathetically and Crane rolled his eyes privately. What a wet blanket! He would have to fake sympathy to get out of this emotional mess.

'Look', he said impatiently, 'I'm very sorry and if I could make it up, I certainly would. But since there's nothing I can do now, I'll just apologise again and go about my business.'

She looked up at him, glee in her eyes. She squeaked, sounding very much like a mouse herself.

'Ooooh! But you can! Please, please, could you come and fix up my scarecrow like you did Beth's? I didn't have time and it'd look awesome if you made it!'

'Oh, great. Fine. I'll see if I can.'

He pushed back the door with difficulty, carrying his many belongings.

'But I'm not promising anything, mind you!' he yelled after the figure of the waitress, who was phoning to tell her best friend Brigitte (age nineteen, anuptaphobia, possible aggressive reaction to toxin) about the excitement. Crane shook his head.

***

The mice were frightened out of their tiny minds.
First they'd been put in a small dark space, then they'd been screamed at and nearly trodden on by a big creature with awful pink legs.
Now they were breathing in something that smelled strange and terrified them. They banged against glass walls, squeaking in fear.

Crane had his head in level with the cages he'd placed in the corner of the lab, staring intensely; noting the way the gas affected each test sample.
It seemed that the fear had set in correctly. There was no sign of allergic or choking reactions.
Very good.
It would be very displeasing to gas the entire town, only to have everyone drop dead of unwanted effects to the respiratory system.

One last check up. Subjects 1, 5, 13 and 7 were curled up in tight, quivering balls of fur.
Subjects 3, 2, 4 and 14 were shrieking in protest at their plight.
Subject 6 was biting and clawing at subject 10. Crane shoved it away with a long metal stick and removed subject 10 from the glass cage. He patted it absentmindedly and placed it back into the box.
The rest were affected moderately by the gas, backing away from each other and squealing shrilly.

Perfect.

Crane noted down his progress and waited for the effects to subdue before returning the mice one by one into the box. He took a fistful of corn and seeds to reward to animals' co-operation.
As he placed the food in the center of the box, subject 6 bit his hand viciously.
Crane gritted his teeth and shook off the creature, tightly squeezing his fist against the pain. He placed the aggressive subject 6 in solitary confinement, putting him alone in a glass cage.
He then slumped to the floor, gripping his hurt hand and reclining his head against the corner of the room.

There was always one who occasionally went completely berserk. He'd have to do something about the steroids in the formula one day.

Crane looked down at his hand. It was a clean cut, but would need disinfection. He massaged his hand to relax the spasm of pain. The corn now spilled from his limp fist and into the corner of the room, reddened with Crane's blood.
He was forcefully reminded of the times when he had been too stubborn or too lively as a child. He'd been ordered to kneel on dried corn kernel in the corner of his room.
It had seemed ridiculous the first time, until the minutes edged by slowly and the corn cut deep into his knees.

Thus humility and patience were taught.

'Bloody mess', hissed Crane between his teeth, getting up slowly.

***

Retreating from his hidden laboratory in an unusually melancholy mood, Crane locked the school gates shut after him. His hands fumbled with the keys and his injury gave a slight stab of pain. He ignored it and made his way quietly down the road, gravel and dead leaves crunching beneath his feet.

He reached the crossroads in short time and subconsciously turned towards the field containing Maggy's scarecrow. He didn't know why, but he was inclined today to try his hand at fixing the poor thing.
Crane walked towards the farm where Maggy lived, following a criss-crossing track through the fields.
He had already been there once, accompanying Mayor Bentle one evening out of sheer boredom. It had been productive, though. He had made progress with gathering basic information about the locals, including the unsuspecting Maggy and her friends.

He nodded to a very old man sitting in front of the house and inquired about Maggy. The man was her grandfather and was of no particular interest to Crane. He was not going to participate in the festival, and besides that fact, he would most likely have a coronary attack if exposed to the toxin.

Maggy was glad to see him. She hadn't expected the professor to actually turn up.
She hurried over from where she had been hanging up the laundry and was greeted as usual with great reservation on Crane's behalf. He continued to be stiff and formal while she led him to the barn and Maggy began to feel flustered and uncertain, as she always did while in presence of the taciturn man.

'Here we are, Professor! I've got loads of old stuff here, you can have a look and see if you'll need anything. Thanks again for coming, I didn't really think you'd find the time...'

Crane gave her a sparse smile. He sifted though the contents of a cardboard box filled with old clothes and scraps of rags. He had a violent fit of sneezing just as he retrieved a dark overcoat from the box. Maggy laughed nervously.

'D'you need a tissue, Professor? I'm sure I've got one in...'

'Hrrrugh! No need, thank you. Just a touch of hay fever.'

'Hay fever? Erm, shouldn't you be staying away from scarecrows, then?'

'What? Pardon? Oh, no, that's straw you're thinking of. I haven't a problem with straw.'

'Um... Okey-dokey, then! Will you be needing me to, um, help or something?' she quavered.

Crane looked up at her and shook his head firmly. He picked up the old clothes and tools he would need and went towards the door of the barn, closely followed by Maggy. She walked alongside him until they came to the house, talking in a scatterbrained fashion about the animals they kept on the farm and the problems they were having with their crops, as if Crane cared.

'Well, I really need to go back in and finish the washing. If you need anything, just come round the back, OK? I'll be over when I'm finished to see how you're doing.'

'Fine. Goodbye, Maggy.'

Crane found his work of repairing the dreadfully neglected scarecrow oddly relaxing. It gave him something intellectually undemanding to do with his hands while he sorted out his thoughts.

Stripping the thing of its jolly straw hat and patched trousers, he reflected sadly that it had gone through almost as much abuse in its career as the Scarecrow himself.

The Scarecrow would be making his appearance soon enough and Crane wanted it to be successful. The timing would be perfect, as the town and its immediate surroundings now had scarecrows popping up like mushrooms after the rain. It would provide an atmosphere perfect for his experiments.

***

Crane was sorry he didn't have this much luck while operating in Gotham.

He was usually too rushed there to think his plans out to perfection. Life in the city was a constant struggle between bare survival and the need for self-actualisation in the form of his studies.
No wonder he hardly ever succeeded in the way he wanted to.

After all, according to Maslow's theory of the hierarchy of needs, higher goals could only be focused on when the lower needs in the hierarchy were met. Crane made a mental checklist of himself within those levels of needs.

Physiological Needs were basic survival factors such as nourishment and correct body temperature, et cetera, et cetera. Those were fairly simple to achieve, even though at times he had trouble while starving and freezing himself in a dark corner of the city, far from the people chasing him.

That brought him to the next level, Safety and Security. He was fairly unsatisfied with the amounts available to him.
One could argue that he was quite secure in the High Security wing of Arkham Asylum, however Crane felt that this was poor comfort.
He found one place or another to temporarily abide in while on the loose; but sooner or later, the factor of Personal Safety would be badly shaken by a certain brute dressed like a giant bat.

Crane rolled his eyes as he absently adjusted the new outfit that Maggy's scarecrow would be getting.

So, for sake of argument, the first two levels of the hierarchy were met. Generally speaking. If he squinted, anyway.

The third level brought Love and Belonging.
Good grief.
It was a level Crane thought best ignored, as it consisted of personally nonexistent factors such as family, friendship and sexual intimacy. Alright, he could say he had friends.
He rubbed shoulders often enough with the other inmates of Arkham.
Some of them didn't even try to kill him on sight.

The problem with making new friends in a institution for the criminally insane, reflected Crane, was that they were so unstable.
But Jervis had given him a book and Pam had sometimes let him help with watering the flowers in the asylum garden.
He'd struck alliances with some of the inmates on occasion. It was possible to have a perfectly lucid conversation with Edward Nygma or even Harley, provided she was separated from her killer clown.

The Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy, the Riddler and Harley Quinn. Such lovely names for friends.

Feeling slightly more confident despite everything, Crane submitted the next step in his self-analysis, Esteem.
He was very proud of his intellectual prowess, but he never felt respected by people, except when they were in fear of his Scarecrow persona. It was like having a superiority and inferiority complex at the same time.

If all the previous levels were met, he could reach the summit, Self-actualisation.
Fat chance.
Crane snorted to himself. His pyramid of needs was a house of cards with all the bottom cards haphazardly swaying to-and-fro.

Failure to obtain necessary levels of each need often resulted in frustration, depression and anxiety. That seemed to fit Crane's bill better than the daydream image of himself as a fulfilled scientist and famous psychologist.

He shook off the straw from his clothes, returning to more mundane and practical matters.

The Scarecrow might be a mental and emotional mess, but the scarecrow was completed rather nicely.

Now he could get the girl to take a look at it and he would finally go home. That was to say, the bed and breakfast. Funny thing, how some words crept up on you.

***

He found Maggy busy working in her small kitchen. Crane knocked against the window and she bounced over to the doorway, carrying a basket.
The depressed psychologist frowned. He felt mild disapproval of people displaying a constant good mood towards life. It just wasn't natural, in his humble opinion.

As they were passing the barn and stables on their way to the fields, the professor suddenly grabbed Maggy's arm and stopped in his tracks. The girl glanced at him with a slightly fearful expression, which turned to confusion when she saw the eager look in his eyes.

'Is that yours?' said Crane, pointing to a horse in the stable.

'Yeah, for now, anyway. What about her?'

'Could I take a closer look, please?' asked Crane while heading purposefully to the stables.

A black horse! Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? It would be the finishing touch to his frightening Scarecrow image. He stroked the animal's muzzle fondly, admiring its fine black hide and the way its breath curled in tendrils in the autumn mist.
He turned his head sideways to the girl standing at the entrance to the stables.

'For now? You're willing to sell it?'

'Well, not really willing, but she's not much use to the farm, is she? Anyway, we don't own very much of the land anymore, these are mostly crops owned by corporations. They use machines. I got her when I was little, but she costs too much to keep now. It's hard to let go, though, especially since I'm scared she'll just end up as dog food or something...'

'I'd buy the horse, if you're ready. Not for a very high price, but it won't become dog food, at least.'

'You?' breathed Maggy. She looked taken aback. 'Why?'

'Because', began Crane hesitantly, then plunged on, deciding that Maggy was too thick to suspect anything, 'Because I think I'll need her to complete a surprise I've got in store for the town on Halloween.'

He leaned toward her and whispered:

'You won't tell anyone, will you? Not even your little friends. I'd love to keep it a secret...'

Maggy's eyes were as wide as saucers as they continued their way to the scarecrow.

'Alright. I promise. Are you putting on a show or something like that?'

'Something like that, yes... I'll come over and pay you in cash tomorrow.'

'Will there be people taking pictures for newspapers and stuff? Will someone famous come? Will I need to get my hair done for the festival?'

Crane smiled widely. She'd given him a great idea.
Two great ideas, in fact.

'Sure, Maggy. You do that', he said in a kind voice. That tone should have alerted her, but she was already in a happy little world of her own.
She had seen her new scarecrow.
Crane withstood her bubbling merriment with dignity. He couldn't wait to get back to his room and fit in his new ideas into the general plan.
The girl stopped him as he bade her farewell and turned to leave.

'Here, this is a little something for you', she said and placed the basket she had been carrying into his hands.

'Thank you... You shouldn't have. Really.' Crane stared dully at the basket. It was heavy. He sceptically guessed at the contents.

'What's in it? Vegetables?'

'No, silly!' Maggy physically backed away at the icy look Crane shot her. She faltered and explained:

'It's a few bottles of my grandpa Archie's Corn Liquor. He makes it himself. It's really good, you'll like it.'

'Home-made, eh? Is it safe to drink?' asked Crane, remembering how easily people poisoned themselves with their own produce. Him with his toxins, for a start.

'Yeah, sure. You put a little of it on a teaspoon and set it on fire. If it burns yellow, you don't drink it. If it burns blue, it's OK.'

'Ah, you test it for methanol. But −'

'Look, we've been making it for years. I've already drunk some of this batch. Just relax. You can do that, right?'

'Right', said Crane uncertainly. 'Thanks.'

'And don't tell people who you got it from. We're not supposed to have a still by the riverbank...'

'I won't tell your secret, if you don't tell mine', smiled Crane. The girl was endearingly stupid. She had told him the location of the still without so much as him asking for it. He doubted it was a very big secret in Charleston. These things never were.

'Deal. See you tomorrow, then, Professor!'

Crane trudged back to the town, arriving just before dusk. He didn't go home immediately. He wanted to expand on his evil plans of personal revenge.

He needed to send a postcard.

***

'Where've you been?' called Ms Beth from the reception, when she saw Crane walking down the corridor.

'Been busy', muttered Crane, searching his pockets for the key to his room.

Ms Beth came to him and, shaking her head, dangled the missing key in front of his face. He had forgotten he'd left it on the reception. While Crane now searched for the key to his briefcase, she picked a few pieces of straw from Crane's coat.

'A roll in the hay?'

Jonathan Crane looked at her in horror, completely aghast. She cackled at him. He waved her off in resigned dismissal.

'That was disgusting. Little old ladies shouldn't be so vulgar, I'll have you know.'

'Hehe. Sorry, couldn't resist. The look on your face!'

'In fact, I went to see a man about a horse. And I fixed Maggy's scarecrow, hence the straw. It looks good. I just hope no one sets it on fire or uses it as shooting practice, the way its luck has been going. I'm going upstairs now.'

'Will you be down for cards?'

'I might. I received a present we could all share, a drink of some kind.'

'Archie's Corn Liquor? From the secret still by the river?'

'The very same. I can see that you are a veritable well of information, Ms Beth.'

Crane ascended and locked himself into his room. He found the key to his briefcase in his left boot, of all places. He knelt and took out his burlap mask for a few minutes, holding it in his hands.

'Soon', he told himself in a raw whisper, or perhaps the mask.

The mask seemed to grin even more widely at him through its eerie stitching.

Note: To 'kneel on corn' is an old expression in my language, which means basically to reprent. It probably comes from that kind of punishment. Nasty. Poor Crane. D:

Shamrock Tea is a very... odd book.

If you're really bored, search for 'Archie's Corn Liquor' on the Internet. I couldn't believe something like that really existed, it seems like a perfect drink for the Scarecrow. B-)