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: I'm terribly sorry if this half-chapter is long - it's about 10 pages! I split it in such a way to make my possibly favourite part of the story a separate half. It's the next one, when it starts to get more intense. It also has a cameo of another Gotham City character I find great. :D

Thank you immensely for the feedback and comments - if I have been late in responding to them, know that I read them all and try to reply at the first opportunity.

To Rocku: I'm pleased you like Maggy, for she makes a small appearance in this chapter, too.
To AZ-woodbomb: The friendly behaviour of the locals now continues... I'm glad you caught the creepy moment in the last paragraph.
To Carycomic: Thank you for the compliment on the story progress! Also, toymaker, eh? I hope he didn't create the Mr Scarface doll, too. D:
To ColinatorGX: That's right, the town is accordingly affecting him. Though what he'll do about that remains yet to be seen. :) Thank you so much, I enjoy analysing him a bit.

When reading the first part of this, you'll encounter a phrase 'short-legged liar'. It's a twist on a local saying which states that lies have short legs (meaning they soon get caught). I love to insert random silly things. :)

Chapter Five: Samhainophobia

Thomas Grentley narrowed his eyes in concentration, his tongue sticking out, as he tried to place an ace of spades on the pyramid of cards he was attempting to make.
He hiccupped and the structure came tumbling down.

'Drat', he mumbled. This was the sixth time it had happened in ten minutes. Beside him his son Andrew snored on the wooden bench on Ms Beth's terrace.

'I give up', said Grentley miserably.

'About time, too', replied Hugh Bentle, passing him the bottle of Corn Liquor.

It had gone around rather quickly and was now more than half empty. Or nearly half full, according to another school of thought.
After all, the night was young; they had time in abundance to finish up the bottle. Then they could have another round of the type of philosophical conversation that tends to arise between slightly drunken individuals at one in the morning.

'It's the wind, 's gettin' stronger', complained Grentley.

'No it ain't. I finished mine, look', stated Ms Beth proudly. She blew a puff of smoke from her pipe.

'You're drunk, Grentley. And short-sighted. And it's dark. Don't be scared of admitting defeat for once', mumbled Crane from where he was curled up in a rocking chair.
His brain felt fuzzy and happy, but his mouth was still following orders, regardless of the good liquor.

'Not scared.'

'Yes, you are.'

'Not. 'Course I'm not. Not of anything.'

'Nothing? Oh, please, you're lying like a, a, great big short-legged −'

'Shut up, you two', interrupted Ms Beth. They were both stubborn; if no one stopped them before it got out of hand, there'd be no end to their bickering.

'You are frightened of losing, Grentley. Shush, look', she said, pointing to several bats circling and flapping overhead.
'Johnny's afraid of them. So now you're both quits, OK?'

'I know you're frightened of going senile, you old bat', said Grentley, not wanting to be denied having the last word.

'And I'm scared of dogs, so what? Gotta have some weakness, if you're human, no?' said Hugh Bentle in a pacifying tone.

'Yes, indeed', piped in Crane. He leaned forward and nearly fell off the rocking chair. He hadn't realised that the ground had been spinning. The bats shrieked and swooped around the company as they all poured themselves more of old Archie's masterpiece.

'Met him in person, y'know', blurted out Crane muzzily.

'Who?' asked Grentley, confused.

'The Batman. In the City, not here, naturally.'

'Really? When?'

Crane ran his hands over his eyes, trying to focus. What had he been saying? Was he supposed to have been saying it?

'Wha...? At night, 'course. He doesn't get out much by day, I think.'

'Was he catching a criminal?' inquired Ms Beth, with slight awe in her voice.

'Um. Uh-uh. I guess so. We're all... I mean, they're all a little frightened of him. He's tough...' Crane's voice petered out. His tongue was slipping and he needed to get it together really fast, unless he wanted to tell them everything, like some kind of Maggy.

'It's a collective fear thing', he babbled, to shift their attention from the Dark Knight.
'Like when crowds get all tense and no one knows what the others are thinking, but they all feel each others' nervousness. You know? I kinda feel that here, too. What's Charleston afraid of?'

'The town?'

'Everybody in town, I mean. As a whole.'

'I know that one', interjected Hugh Bentle. 'We've got the local story of the Dead Man of Brook Field.'

'No, that wasn't what I was thinking', said Crane slowly. What had he been thinking of? He'd felt something for sure, he'd nearly sensed Charleston's fear, when suddenly the drink made the trail of his thoughts go cold. He'd remember in the morning.

'Ooh, tell him, Hugh. Let's hear a ghost story!' exclaimed Ms Beth.

'Well, there's a little field near the woods that's all ashes. Nothing grows there. Some folk say it's where a man called Jonathan Yeat was burned at the stake in 1772. He was a preacher who...'

The storytelling and discussions continued until late into the night.

***
Jonathan Crane rocked in his chair, alone on the terrace. The others had left, his old landlady had gone to put away the glasses.

The wind blew and sent faint ripples across the fields. The skinny man stretched and yawned. The world spun and tipped slightly.
He'd done nothing productive, but it had been fun. It had been a good night, the liquor had been good, the company had been good. Everything was good, you know?

Looking up at moon and the clouds sailing along the sky, Crane wondered if it was possible to be happy in spite of Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

He peevishly knocked over the pyramid of cards on the table with a long thin hand. The playing cards shifted in the breeze all over the wooden floor, as scattered as Crane's thoughts.

He got up unsteadily and puffed out his bony chest. He liked Maslow. He really did. The man had been a brilliant thinker and had also had a difficult childhood. However, if Professor Jonathan Crane wanted to be accomplished and happy, there was nothing any deceased psychiatrist could do about it.

Crane stepped forward decisively.
There was a world of opportunities out there, waiting to embrace him.

He tripped over the steps of the terrace and landed painfully in the mud. Crane lay there for a few moments, pondering about the irony of life.

He would have felt a whole lot worse if it hadn't been for the comforting shadow of the scarecrow falling across him.

***

There were only a few days left until Halloween. Several new guests had arrived at Elisabeth Tembrooke's establishment in the morning. Crane avoided them in case anyone from Gotham recognised him.
He had quickly eaten breakfast in the kitchen rather than risking the dining room. Ignoring Ms Beth's remarks about how he should eat more, Crane had set off to pay Maggy for the horse.

He scratched the docile black horse between its ears as he waited for the girl to arrive. Outside, a wind chime tinkled in the breeze. The horse pricked up its ears before continuing to nuzzle his hand.
Horses liked Crane. He always smelt slightly of nice fresh straw. Maggy entered the stable.

'Hey, Professor. Still want to buy Daisy?'

'Of course. I'm a man of my word', replied Crane. He stopped. 'Daisy?'

'Yeah, isn't she sweet? She likes you already!'

Daisy tried to eat Crane's hair affectionately. The insane scientist deflated. He had been hoping for a more dramatic name for his mare.
Nightmare would have been perfect. The Scarecrow and Nightmare.

Johnny and Daisy just didn't have the same ring.

'Ah, well', he said stoically. 'I can train her to respond to a new name, in time. She looks bright, Pavlov's classical conditioning could work. Not the fear conditioning of course, rather the associative learning techniques are what I have in mind... Maybe if I bribe her with sugar cubes while teaching her?'

Maggy gaped at him. 'Pavlov's what? Who? That sounds like really hard stuff... How come you're so smart, Professor?'

'I used to eat lots of broccoli as a child', said Crane, in a completely serious tone.

'Wow. Every day or just really lots once a week?'

Crane grinned. Silly, gullible girl. He had started writing down Golden Maggy Quotes in his blue notebook, for days in the future when he felt depressed and needed a laugh.
Maggy saw his expression and looked down at her feet sadly.

'Look, I know I'm not very bright', she began. Understatement of the year, thought Crane.

'But it's not my fault. I've always been a bit slow on the uptake. It's not very nice to make fun of it, is all I'm saying. I get more than enough mean remarks from everyone else...'

Crane's smile froze for a moment. When he looked at her, Maggy felt surprised to see a hint of sympathy and embarrassment on his face.

'I'm sorry', he mumbled. 'I didn't know. I thought you had lots of friends?'

'I do. Earl and Brigitte and some of the others are OK, but most people just like to tease me. It gets a bit tiring after a while...'

'I understand', said Crane, biting his lower lip slightly.

'I don't think you really can.'

'I can. I've been a laughingstock all my life.'

'You? Why would people laugh at you?'

'My appearance. It's not very...' he trailed off helplessly and waved his hand in the air unspecifically. 'Never mind. So... How much are you asking for Daisy, Maggy?'

***

Professor Crane strolled through the town, wishing to catch Andrew Grentley alone. He wanted to give him a specific task to carry out on Halloween.
Crane had no doubt the boy would agree, but it was difficult finding him among all the people gathering at the town square.

Mayor Bentle appeared to be having a loud debate with someone on a voting stand built for the festival. He couldn't see Bentle's opponent, but the man had an unpleasant braying voice.
Crane halted and stood on his toes; now a head above the crowd, he searched for Andrew's face.
Someone poked him in the ribs.
He looked down to see old Ms Beth standing beside him. She was shaking with suppressed rage.

'Oh, that rotten Jim Fielane!' she grumbled through gritted teeth, her wrinkled hands curling into fists.

'Hmph?' Crane grunted uncommitedly. He couldn't see Andrew.

Perhaps he hadn't woken up yet, it was very early from the point of view of the tired and hung over. Though the racket expanding throughout the crowd ought to have been enough to act as an alarm clock for the lazy boy. Everyone was getting worked up, it seemed.
No, alarm clock had been a good choice of words. Crane could sense a faint tide of alarm making its way through the locals.
The tension was almost palpable - Charleston's collective fear come to life.

Interesting.

'What are they talking about? It's gotten everyone worried, can you feel it?' He asked Ms Beth. She looked pretty upset herself, come to mention it.

'What?' Crane repeated, yelling over the noise.

'Come on, Jonathan! We're going. I won't stand for this!' She took his hand and led them firmly away from the square. He followed her limply, made obedient by some automatic reaction, his brow furrowing in confusion.

'Ms Beth? What's going on?'

'I'll tell you in a minute. Let's just get away from here.'

'Agreed. Erm... You're hurting my hand. Could you loosen your grip? Ms Beth? Please?'

***

Crane massaged his hand while Ms Beth aggressively knocked on the door to Grentley's house. The woman had a grip of steel. It hadn't helped that it was his injured hand, either.

Old Grentley suspiciously opened the door a fraction, cigarette in mouth.
Ms Beth slammed the door wide open and strode into the house in righteous wrath. She swept into the living room like a vengeful spirit, Crane giving Grentley a small shrug as they followed.

Crane went to sit down quietly in the corner of the room, shifting a few old magazines and a half full ashtray to make space on the sofa.
He crossed his arms over his thin chest and waited to hear what the old woman had to say.

'Jim Fielane's on the square, Grentley! He says they'll be buying the school and the adjoining field acreage next spring if we don't fund the repairs ourselves...'

'Yeah, well, it's closed down nowadays anyway. Who cares who buys it, so long as it starts working again?' replied Grentley, drawing a breath of smoke.

'No!' snapped Ms Beth. 'They want to tear the structure down, make a packaging complex or something, I don't know - to make it easier to control the entire process of getting our crops on world markets. Their crops, actually, they're buying 'em', she added bitterly.

'Nah, they won't buy the acreage around that part of the area', retorted Grentley with confidence. 'Mike and Louise won't want to sell.'

Ms Beth rolled her eyes and sighed theatrically in exasperation. She put her hands on her hips and said in a calm, slow tone:

'Of course they'll sell now. Can't you see? No, of course not, you're a man, you don't understand these things. First they closed the school and the kids had to be driven all the way to Gladston, or even St Helens.'

Grentley opened his mouth to retaliate, but Ms Beth stopped him with a wave of her hand.

'Louise hears that the school's going to be demolished. Mike hears that local land is being bought for good cash. Oh, they'll sell if the school's bought. They'll sell, too, 'cause if they don't, their farm'll go bust anyway. The rest of the land will be owned by their competition soon enough. Dead end for us.'

'So this is what it's all about?' asked Crane incredulously. 'You're all scared you'll lose against bigger forces moving in? But Charleston's only a small community. It doesn't make a difference. In the long run, no one will lose anything.'

Ms Beth whipped around to face him.

'We will lose the town, Jonathan. Perhaps no one else cares about it, but its ours. I for one am not standing by to see it turned into a ghost town!'

'Won't be a ghost town. There'll be the granary and packaging complex', grunted Grentley.

Crane shrugged and shifted on the sofa. Charleston's collective tension was building up.
That suited him just fine. The poor fools!
They thought that their pathetic little town would be destroyed by mere money, politics and migration. How mundane!

What they didn't know was that the end was nearer than they could ever imagine. Charleston would be crushed overnight, when the fear toxin spread terror through the streets.
The entire populace would have their minds shattered when their worst fears intensified and were made real by the hallucinogens.
Mass panic and trauma would destroy the town.

'Hello? What's happened, Dad?' Andrew came downstairs, his light hair dishevelled, yawning and blinking in the light.

Crane made his way to talk to the boy before Ms Beth got a chance to wind herself up again.

'I need you for a minute, Andrew. You'll get a chance to talk to these two little rays of sunshine later.'

'Ah, OK. What d'you need me for?'

'You showed me some of your photos some time ago, remember? They were quite good, I recall. Do you have a darkroom here, by any chance?'

'Yeah, sure. In the basement. Wou... Would you like me to show you now?' Andrew quavered. In the background, Ms Beth had diverted her attention from Charleston's fate to the mess in Grentley's living room. She was poking him in the chest and demanding immediate action.

'I think now would be a good time for us to slip away unnoticed, yes.'

***

'Here we are. I developed all the pics in here. I can show you how the process goes, if you'd like?'

Crane winced as he banged his head on the low ceiling in the darkroom.

'That won't be necessary. I'd like to ask you something. Have you ever considered a project in photojournalism? Public gatherings and events, performing arts, that sort of thing?'

'I have done a bit of that, too. You mean the festival in a few days time? I wanted to take some pictures anyway, maybe they'll put them in the Chronicle. They sometimes do, if I get a few good ones.'

'Aye, I had the festival in mind. Can your camera capture fast movement well? I don't know the correct technical term, but you know what I mean.'

'Uh-uh. What would you like me to take the pictures for you of at the festival?'

'Would you agree to positioning yourself up on the flat roof of the Hall on Main Street? You could capture a bird's eye view of the events from up there.'

And you'll be safely positioned, away from the gas below, thought Crane.
After all, if he wanted to get photographic evidence of his experiment on mass fear, he'd need the photographer to remain focused and sane.

'That actually sounds like a cool idea. Sure, I'll do my best. So you don't want anything specific captured?'

'You'll figure out what's important to capture when the time comes, I'm certain. Then we have a deal?' asked Crane.

'Yeah, no problem, Professor.'

They shook hands and Crane didn't let go immediately, but held his grip firmly.

'One last thing, Andrew. I'm really counting on you. Please don't disappoint me. Don't go, ah, running off when the time comes for you to get your work done. If you do what I require well, I'm certain you will be accordingly awarded. If you don't, I'm equally certain you'll regret it.'

Another young person might have offered a snappish reply to the thinly masked and largely unspecific threat. Andrew just shuddered and nodded. He was slightly in awe of the odd professor.
Anyway, Andrew thought he guessed what would happen. He didn't want Professor Tattiebogle to tell his father about how his son was an unreliable good-for-nothing and a failure.

'I promise I'll be there with my equipment. Don't worry, you'll get lots of photos on the film and you can pick which ones you like later.'

'Good. I think I will be taking them all in any case. Shall we go back upstairs? The storm seems to have calmed.'

'The yelling's stopped, anyway.'

'Yes, I noticed. That's good.'

'Nah, mostly it means it's worse. They're seething. Best be prepared', said Andrew and picked up a set of keys.

'What are you going to do?'

'We are going to leave real quietly round the back. When Ms Beth comes over to clean up, it's time to evacuate ship.'

Crane nodded. That was ever so true.

***

Jonathan Crane and Andrew Grentley sat in comfortable silence on a bench in the park next to the house. The political debate outside had ended and people were dispersing from the square.

Mayor Bentle passed their bench and merely nodded to them as he made his way home, walking in a preoccupied manner. The two men seated in the shade glanced at each other.
Crane lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. Local matters were no concern of his.

In fact, it could be said that one man's misery was another's joy, for the build-up of tension would only make Crane's job of fear assessment easier.

As they rested overlooking the Saint Charles Creek, Andrew throwing pebbles into it, Crane saw a few of Andrew's friends approaching down the path.
He recognised one of them and smiled faintly.

'Nice day, eh?' exclaimed Earl politely. He was still cautious about his manners whenever the professor was around. His companion, a sulky-looking teenager, simply stood to the side, eyeing Crane sullenly.

'Yeah, it's really sunny today', replied Andrew unhappily. He wanted to be at home, in the dark, in his comfortable bed.

'Coming down to the creek with us? Me and Frank'll be fishing a bit at the bend next to Brook Field.'

'No, I'll pass, thanks. We're waiting for my dad to come, I think.'

'You can go if you want, Andrew', said Crane distantly. 'I somehow don't think Grentley will be free very soon.'

'No, I don't feel up to anything today...'

'No prob. See you around then', said Earl. He turned to Crane and added reluctantly:

'Um, I saw Maggy today. Nice job with the scarecrow and all... Yeah. Well, we have to get going and all, so...'

'How come Boozer is friends with the Stickman all of a sudden?' whispered Frank. Earl paled slightly.

Crane abruptly rose from the bench, hands outstretched as if to throttle. He stopped just as suddenly and loomed over the boy, smiling inches away from his face.

Frank stared at him, bemused and uneasy. The stick-thin professor wasn't quite as funny up close. He had a dark glint in his intense eyes and didn't look at all like the meek schoolteachers Frank was used to.
He looked like someone who would devote a lot of time thinking up unpleasant ways to get back at you.

'I wouldn't know the answer to that, my young friend. Perhaps Earl can explain a few things on your way to the river? Conduct would be a key word.'

The teenager nodded, biting his lips.

'Good. I can call you my friend, right?'

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry?' said Crane in a jolly voice. Earl nudged Frank in the ribs with his elbow.

'Yes, Professor.'

'That's more like it. I'm glad we're all friends here. Enjoy yourselves, boys.' Crane patted the worried Frank on the cheek and sat down again. As the young men were leaving, Crane heard Earl hissing:

'You idiot! Just you leave that guy alone, I told you he was creepy...'

Crane barked a short laugh. Andrew looked at him sideways, his eyes still pink and sore from fatigue.

'Sorry about that. Frank likes to make up stupid nicknames for everyone. They don't bother you at all?'

'Not at all, not at all', said Crane with satisfaction.

It was true. He had outgrown petty insults from people who weren't worth his time and energy.
He probably would have been upset if he had been seventeen again, but it seemed now that time had erased even Crane's sore spot.

Or perhaps it was was the atmosphere here, he was inexplicably capable of handling his problems without the Scarecrow.

'It bothers me a bit. Ah, well...' sighed Andrew. 'I don't think they'll catch anything up at Brook Field anyway.'

'Brook Field? That's the place they think is haunted, right?'

'That's right. Mayor been telling you the stories, huh? It's just a spooky spot that overlooks the town. Could have been the Preacher's Pyre, for all I know, 'cause the ground really is completely black there. I dunno what caused it, though, it's not as if anyone goes digging there.'

'You people are really big on the Devil's Preacher tales, I must have heard several versions up until now.'

'Jonathan Yeat? Yeah, he's a bit of a local favourite. Eyes a-glow with fervour, he could scare people literally to death with his apocalyptic sermons. Old Preacher Jonathan, who sold his soul to the Devil so he could punish the locals for their ignorance and mean-spiritness. Yadda-yadda, it goes on and on. You get the picture.'

'Yes. It's a rather pleasing picture.' Sometimes fate delivered the perfect ending. They would all think it was the vengeful spirit of the Preacher when Crane released terror on the streets. Superstition would make an excellent complement to fear.
Luckless bastards.

'There you are, you lucky bastards', grumbled Grentley, huffing and puffing on the way to Crane and Andrew. 'Got yourselves out of this nicely, I don't think! D'you know what the old hag made me do? She made me clean out all the stuff outta the living room, then bullied me into washing the entire floor! What for, I ask you? We cleaned everything recently!'

'We cleaned everything when the kitchen flooded last winter, Dad', said Andrew reproachfully.

Crane sniggered.

Note: The Devil's Preacher is sort of a vague little tribute to the animated series and that undead preacher look they gave Crane. Odd, but very effective.