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 like this half-chapter, the wierd stuff was fun to write. The next one'll be finally Halloween, with the coincidence that it might actually be Halloween when I submit it. :D
Thank you lovingly for your kind support of this story, three shorter third-chapters to go, hope you'll enjoy them.

To Trumpeteer34: Thanks so much, I'm really pleased you like 'this' Crane. Also I'm glad you enjoyed the hay line, I had to put in that pun somewhere! :D
Crane seems the type for mockery (when he has guts enough for it), which I love to write a bit.

To Carycomic: That's right, I forgot about Nightwing's introduction. They only did two episodes with the Scarecrow, I think, but both were a bit disturbing! And I think you're right about the Pale Rider influence, it's too much of a coincidence.

To ColinatorGX: I wanted to put a plan to Crane's fear gas experiment that would tie in nicely with the direction of the story. You'll see. Drunk Crane is amusing to write and imagine. D:

Chapter Five: Samhainophobia (Part 2)

It was night and time for Jonathan Crane to carry out the final and most unpleasant preparation for the toxin. He greeted Ms Beth on the way out, explaining that he had left something at the lab.
The toxin had been stored in several pressurised cans. A sample had been kept aside for Crane to carry out one last preliminary experiment – introspection.

He would breathe the gas himself and note its effect. This wasn't a very reliable method of psychological research and study, but it was necessary in this case.

Crane was by no means immune to the fear gas, but he had found that if he exposed himself to it beforehand in a controlled environment, he could later regain some control of himself.
Knowing the exact effect on himself was useful, he knew what to expect if he was gassed by accident. Foreseen hallucinations were easier to dismiss.

Crane exited the school, carrying a beaker with the sample in liquid form and an alcohol burner.

He placed himself on the lowest step and prepared to heat up the sample gently. The flames had trouble starting because of the wind starting to blow.

Waiting for the liquid to vaporise, Crane glanced at the panorama of Charleston. The street lights twinkled in the dark and Crane wondered what he would experience under the influence of the gas.
Perhaps the nearness of the little town would bring back his childhood fears.

The wind continued to howl and Crane cupped the flames protectively with his hands. A few bubbles formed in the liquid.

Charleston shone serenely in the dark, regardless of the fears that paralysed its residents' peace of mind.
Crane felt a pang of unexpected sympathy for the town. It continued to stubbornly function in the face of overwhelming odds against its existence.

He had to admit that there was something akin to his nature in the atmosphere of the town.
He didn't analyse such thoughts further. A few more days and it would all be over in any case.
Crane was feverish with anticipation.

He knew that Halloween would prove the shock of a lifetime for the residents and only Jonathan Crane was capable of providing it.

Namely, Crane had an advantage few of the Arkham inmates could boast of. He possessed an ability to mask his madness just up to the point where he required. His psychosis was, of course, plain to any competent psychiatrist - but while on the loose, he partially adapted to society.
He could never find complete peace in an ordinary setting, that he could not; the desire for his psychological experimentations, in the end, always channelled itself through his actions.

However, common people often ignored little telltale signs of his twisted nature. He could blend into a crowd and, apart from his height, no one would spare him a second glance.
Crane was a threat because he was able to pretend he was perfectly sane and then proceed to cause irrevocable mental damage.

The insane professor pulled back a few strands of reddish-brown hair from his face. He knelt down neatly in front of the beaker, the liquid inside about to reach boiling point.
His heart thudded in his throat, in fearful expectation of the effects.
But it had to be done.

These fools here never suspected what danger lurked among them, unnoticed and unremarkable until it was too late.
They had actually accepted him in their midst as if he was one of them.
There. That was just the problem, wasn't it? Why on Earth had they accepted him?

The dark fumes arose. Crane inhaled.

***

Roughly seventy kilometres east of Charleston lay Gotham City, glinting with lights and emitting factory smoke. It was the city that proverbially never slept. Some of its citizens certainly never seemed to.

Batman climbed the wall of an unattractive residential building in a low rent area of the city. He had received a call from Commissioner Jim Gordon, passing on a message for the vigilante.
A certain someone they owed a small favour to had required a meeting with him. The Dark Knight was grim with suspicion after he had reached his destination and had realised the location.
He knew who lived here and, although it was unlikely a setup, it was also unlikely good news for him.

Few things were, in his personal line of public relations work.

Batman climbed through the open window to his host's humble apartment. He landed on something that crunched underfoot. A small man, who had been sitting at a table and reading, glanced up and smiled.

'I know you never knock, so I placed a little forewarning for myself. Do come in, now that you're here.'

'What was on the floor?' asked the Dark Knight, feeling slightly miffed. He sometimes had the nasty feeling his host was rather brighter than him.

'Old breadcrumbs', said the Penguin. He stood up and lit himself a cigar.

'Won't you sit down for once? You have a talent for making people feel high-strung in their own homes.'

Batman declined the offer in silence, but came a few steps closer.

'You have every right to be feeling nervous, Penguin. There had better be a good reason for calling me here.'

'Such impatience! Not to worry, I haven't any requests on my behalf... Yet. I am here to divulge information.'

'Good. I want to make it clear, Penguin, that in spite of recent events, I will continue to keep a close eye on you. Any shady dealings will result in the ending of your new career. Incidentally, why are you still living here? I would believe you'd consider it below your status now.'

'First of all, I would prefer you to call me by my given name. May I remind you, I am reformed now. I will be moving when the renovation of the club I bought is completed. I assure you everything will be completely legitimate. Though I'm certain you'll be checking it yourself', the Penguin added acidly.

'Very well. Mr Cobblepot, then?'

'Oswald will do. We're on the same side now, more or less.'

The Dark Knight gave a barely audible snort. He had little confidence that the state of things would continue for long.

'Oswald... You have new information on the Joker, don't you? This is what you called me for, I presume?'

'Oh, no, not for him. However, I don't think you need to bother about the Joker now.'

'Why? There's been no sign of him for weeks now.'

It would be too much to hope for that the dreadful clown is dead, thought the Dark Knight. He has to be planning something big.

'He's indisposed, poor wretch. Last I heard of him, he'd gotten into some freak accident. His ribs are completely shattered. He'll live, but he won't be laughing for a while.' Oswald Cobblepot grinned.

The Dark Knight couldn't help but to twitch his mouth upwards slightly.

'Where is he now?'

'I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. He is not my worry.'

'I should think he was. You must have been the one to help him, if you know so much about his injuries. It would be a smart move, keeping someone like him on your good side.'

The Penguin narrowed his eyes. It was true that he had offered the one-time service of a doctor who didn't ask many questions. A man who wished to open a nightclub wanted to make sure Gotham's Number One Arsonist owed him.

'Ah. I definitely do not know his current residence, I am afraid. However, it is not him we are here to discuss.'

'Finally to the point. What are we here for?'

'I received a postcard for you. It's on the table.'

'Sorry?' He had to have heard the man wrong.

'A postcard, Bat. A rectangular piece of stiff paper used to send greetings. It's from the Scarecrow. It has, quite conveniently, a picture of a rather jolly scarecrow on it. In case the signature of Jonathan Crane proves too difficult for you to make a connection.'

The Batman lifted the postcard cautiously with gloved fingers. You never knew what the card might contain, with the chemically talented villain. He cursed himself mentally. With the burden of all his other problems, he'd forgotten unresolved issue of the Scarecrow.

'What do you know of Charleston, Oswald? It was sent from there.'

'Next to nothing. I believe it was a part of the slavery-era Underground Railroad.'

'Great. There must be a lot of tunnels for him to hide in, then. I had better set off right away.'

'No! Didn't you read the end of the text? He says you have to be there exactly at midnight on Halloween. If you come earlier, he'll make the people living there suffer for your omission! Don't you ever stop to think through?'

'You've been reading my private correspondence! Why, then, didn't you tell me sooner about this?'

'Because I hate to think what he'd do to me if I had. It said to tell you today. Listen, you follow the instructions that the blasted postcard tells you. The man's desperate and cornered, he could do something very nasty.'

'Yes.' Batman sighed heavily. The chubby little man was unfortunately right. There was nothing to do but to try playing by the Scarecrow's rules. He would prepare himself the best he could and spend the day hoping the lunatic would appreciate his co-operation enough to spare the residents. After all, it was surely him he wanted, not the locals.
Batman massaged his temple in frustration.

'Thank you, Oswald. I value your help', he told the Penguin sourly.

'Oh dear. Does this mean you won't be staying for a drink?' smirked the Penguin, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

'Fine', the Batman grunted unexpectedly. 'Just one.'

He sat down at the table abruptly and downed half the drink in one gulp. The Penguin raised his eyebrow and joined him. It must have been a very long night.

***

Ravens and crows, black as the night, circled him and cawed. They scratched at his face with their clawed feet, attempting to peck out his eyes. He crouched down low, shielding his eyes with his hands, feeling the flutter of the corvids' wings on his face.

No, it's just the wind. Get up, coward.

He rose on shaky legs and the world swirled nightmarishly around him, the landscape skewed and muted. He managed to set forth unsteadily, the loud bark of a nearby fox making him start.
Sweating nervously despite the cool air, the weedy man studied his surroundings, his pupils dilated.

So now you fear the dark, too? Pathetic. Walk on.

He managed to trudge through the rustling corn fields, hallucinating the oncoming footsteps of tormentors preparing to throw rocks.
Break his flesh. Push him deep into the mud. Make him gag and choke. His nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.

All to be expected. The birds, the bullies, the helplessness. A few more steps and the road will be there.

He reached the road and breathed heavily, blood pounding to his head. The open path and the fresh air made his panic fade.
He knew this was only temporary. The gas functioned by periodically lessening and heightening the levels of glandular secretions.

See? You're thinking straight. Go on, the town is waiting.

He passed the church, whispers of admonishment tearing through his ears. Bells tolled and unseen feathery wings rustled. The terrified man subconsciously reached out with spindly fingers, to touch a rosary that hadn't been on his neck for years.
Childish guilt sprang through his chosen atheism, snarling of his betrayal. Shadowy imagined figures pointed at him and murmured softly in contempt.

Make yourself stronger than the effects, even if it breaks you.The Devil's Preacher of Brook Field, his presence as palpable as dread, threw back his head and laughed at him. The scrawny man gave a barely audible whimper and ran through the empty streets, passing rows of smiling scarecrows.

If you are not strong enough to survive, then you do not deserve to live. Overcome this. There is work to be done, the harvest of fear awaits the Scarecrow to reap it.

'Hah', said Jonathan Crane.

The silence was deafening, the discomfort rising through the abandoned town. No one called out to him. No one passed the streets. He hesitantly walked on, pausing before a scarecrow with a hangman's noose around its neck.
He stood before it, the toxin making him feverish with realisation.

The town was dead; as dead as the Preacher, as dead as its inhabitants of stuffed straw.
He had brought this upon them.
There was blood on his hands.
He'd killed them all with his chemicals and his lies and his petty malice. He gave a raw sob.

The scarecrow smiled at him knowingly through empty eyes.

They all deserved it; they were fated for nothing else. We bring justice, we bring the vengeance that needed to be exacted long ago.

Something in him faltered and squirmed.

'They are not to blame for this condition. They thought I was a guest', he whispered in earnest to the scarecrow.

They thought wrong. They always underestimate us.

'But they were kind to me, weren't they? They didn't need to, but they still let me in.'

Irrelevant. We don't need kindness! Pity is for the weak, the frightened, the ones too overwhelmed to act. We need respect! We will force them to respect us.The scarecrow smiled at him contemptuously through empty eyes.

'Oh. But we already had their respect, didn't we?'

And what of it? The respect of a stupid old woman and her unaccomplished friends. Who needs that? We can make this work, their plight will be delicious. It always is.

'Will we be laughing?'

Yes! We will be laughing at their mindless panic, we will mock them mercilessly, as we were mocked. We will hurt them until they are paralysed with fear, until they choke on their terror. We will become the one who drives the weak to their breakdown!

'Yes. That's what I was afraid of.'

The Scarecrow smiled at him unnervingly through blue eyes.

Jonathan Crane grabbed the Scarecrow by the neck and throttled him.
The toxin finally gave way and the scraggy man found himself standing alone in the street, squeezing a straw Halloween decoration with his bony hands. Jonathan Crane blinked.
It really came to something when you started hallucinating yourself.

He made it through the dark to the back entrance of his home and sat down listlessly on the steps. He hugged his thin legs and rested his chin on his knees. He was sheltered away in a cocoon, trapped in a vortex of his own thoughts.
Haltingly, almost silently, he began to cry, his cheeks burning in shame.

***

It was the hour before dawn. The town slept on, the morning mist swirling low on the streets. Ms Elisabeth Tembrooke opened the back door of her house, preparing for her morning duties.
She was surprised to see the thin frame of Professor Jonathan already sitting on the steps.
He was shuddering slightly in the cold air, but remained positioned where he was, not looking up at her as she approached.

'Morning, my fine fellow. Waiting for the sunrise? They say it's going to be a perfect day for Halloween, what with the fog setting in.'

The tall man remained silent, avoiding her eyes. She noticed that his clothes were caked with mud again, but what gave her a seed of worry was the blood on his hands.

'Here, what have you been up to?' she asked the unmoving figure. He shot her a quick glance, the white of his eyes pronouncedly showing, and waved a hand in dismissal.

'What happened, dear?' She was beginning to be alarmed now. He didn't answer.

'Look at me!' she barked. The professor finally looked directly at her, obeying some instinct from his matriarchal upbringing, and his pale face showed strain.

'I think', he croaked hoarsely, 'I think I will need to go show you something.'

'Alright', said Ms Beth. 'What is it? You see, I have this oddest feeling it won't be something very pleasant.'

He didn't smile, but got up reluctantly. She followed him upstairs. Before he opened the door to his room, he whispered to her:

'Please promise not to run. Please. I'll... explain.'

***

The old woman solemnly turned the mask round and round in her wrinkled hands. The despicable thing grinned at her, as though mocking her shattered trust.

'What will you do to me now?' She asked the lunatic meekly sitting on the bed opposite her. She considered the possibilities of reaching the phone on time if she ran.
She dismissed the idea, the thought striking her of the wires perhaps already having been cut.
He looked up at her, his voice catching in his throat.

'I? N...Nothing.'

'Liar.'

'No.' He shook his head vehemently.

She glared at the creature in front of her, wondering how she had made it alive this long. The man Jonathan Crane was known to be completely insane and had been living in close proximity to her for weeks now.

And you liked the little bastard, too, she thought. It had felt good, having a smart young thing to keep her company.
He was a good listener and showed an unexpected level of sincere loyalty. He had adapted readily to their quasi-familial relationship.

He stared back at her, at a loss what else to say. He didn't know what to do.
He considered running, but decided it would be, at best, a matter of hours before he was humiliatingly caught.
Why had he been stupid enough to tell the woman everything? If he was too cowardly and distressed to complete his plan, he could have at least had the guts to flee the area to a surrounding he was less personally attached to.

Ms Beth studied the man's face from up close. He looked frightened now, and much younger than he behaved.
She had difficulty accepting the facts and changing her previous view of him as an intelligent and sane professor. How could he be at the same time so deluded?

Poor wretch. He had tried hard to be normal these weeks, it seemed. Mental illness was after all only a sickness of the broken mind. God knew what he had been through.
She suddenly remembered his expressionless face saying: 'She used to beat my knees bloody.'

She shuddered and then briefly passed her hand over her face, sighing.

Ms Beth stood up and placed the mask back into the briefcase. She closed the briefcase with a clicking noise and turned to her protégé, for lack of a better word.

'Do you know what to do now, Professor Crane?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'I will give you a good head start. I will notice your disappearance after lunch, then be surprised to find incriminating evidence of your identity in the room. You promise me you won't hurt anyone.'

'I... Thank you. But I do not intend to run this time. We all have to face our fears some time, Ms Beth, or we do not move forward at all.'

'What are you suggesting, then?'

He told her. When he had finished, she asked him to tell her again. He repeated himself patiently. The second time he finished explaining his course of action, she was sitting in a slight daze, smiling.

'Damn', she said. 'Damn. Really?'

'Yes. What do you think?'

'Damn.'

Ms Beth walked up and down the carpet, grinning nastily. She grabbed Crane by the chin and studied his face, her black eyes as sharp as knives. Finally, she stated:

'I think it's brilliant. We'll have to be tactful, mind you. I reckon I could make 'em listen if we show them, in spite of what you are. Will it work?'

'I hope so!'

'And after it's over, you will...?'

Crane bowed his head.

'I will lose.'

The old woman gave him a heartfelt look of sympathy. She reached the door.

'It's nearly dawn. Take all that's necessary, Jonathan. Shall we go?'

Crane nodded. There was a lot to be done today. He paused by the entrance to his room.

'One last thing... Where do you keep your shovel, Ms Beth?'

***

Crane finished shovelling back the soil, panting from exertion. He looked to where the old woman was watching him, and she gave him a faint nod of encouragement.
His breath still shallow, Crane took out the materials to finish his work. Ms Beth took the pipe out of her mouth and scratched her chin quizzically with it.

'Why here? And why place that over it?'

'It seemed appropriate. No one will go touching the spirit of Halloween. Not here.'

He rearranged the features of the scarecrow and planted it firmly into the ground. He backed away and glanced back briefly at the scene he'd created as he walked downhill.

It was completed to his satisfaction, the embodiment of the fear of Halloween. Samhainophobia.
What better place for it, than the here and now?

'After all, in the end, it's not about winning or losing. It's about leaving a mark', he muttered to himself.

Note: Around about the time I finished this chapter, I watched Batman Begins for the first time. They mention the Underground Railroad as crossing part of the caves beneath Wayne Manor.
As the real life Charleston was part of it, it seemed balsphemy not to include that snippet of info at this point. :D