Enrique and Berto both hefted a table, one of them at each end, around the wall of the family business, over a golden trail of petals that snaked from their home all the way to the graveyard, and through the main gate into the courtyard that was now adorned with many hanging decorations.
"Where'd you want the table, Mamá?" Enrique asked. "Same place as last year?"
"And the five years before that?" Berto added, shrugging as he said so.
"Sí, sí," Abuelita answered, stopping her brooming to gesture to the spot. As the supposed captain of the family, it was only fitting she would be the one to overlook the entire dinner plan. "Next to the kitchen. By the other table."
As the table found its place, the others – Carmen, Gloria, Franco, Rosa, Abel, and Miguel – emerged from the kitchen, lugging chairs in which they set around it. Next came the food, which the entire family took trips back and forth from the kitchen, fattening it up with tonight's feast.
From the direction of the plaza, the familiar whizz and pop of fireworks could be heard. Sparks began to dance upon the horizon as the entire country began to sing and dance. At the other end of the yard, a hairless dog and an ordinary cat rested together, basking in the celebrations.
Enrique found a spot for the tamales, finding himself unable to hide his grin as he set it down, knowing he would never hear the end of it from his Mamá if they were missed out. Across from him, his son decorated the table with another, much needed delicacy.
"Say, Miguel," he began, "we got the table covered. Why don't you go get ready for that song you've been working on?"
Miguel smiled; the dimple became visible on one cheek, but not on the other. It was a small, simple gesture, but Enrique saw something in it he had seldom seen before. For most of his life, music had been a forbidden fruit. He was still fine with that – not once had he ever been tempted by music – but now that the truth of their family history had been discovered, it was as if a shade had been lifted on all of them.
He noticed two sides to his son. When Miguel offered a hand in the workshop, he worked hard, but held an air of rigidness, sluggishness and discomfort in his movements that they recognised only too well from the days in which music was banned. Then, Miguel would pick up his guitar and something would awaken inside of him. He became alive, focused and fluid in his movements. His fingers ran against the strings with such speed and precision that they almost turned visible.
Now, as he looked upon his smiling child, Enrique saw his son's true self. Maybe for the very first time, he saw someone who was well and truly happy.
Miguel had a future and it did not involve making shoes.
Enrique turned to his sobrino and sobrina at the other end of the table. "Rosa, Abel, go get your instruments, too. Let's get some music started. We'll—"
From afar, a blast echoed.
Everything stopped. The Rivera family halted in unison and span in the direction of the rumble – the cat and dog lifting their heads with abruptness. The once friendly unity that filled the courtyard vanished in an instant; a pin drop could be heard. They were accustomed to the great cacophony of fireworks and the crackle of sparklers, of cheering and laughter, but that bang struck a dangerous chord to their sacred holiday.
Another blast sounded – not a firework, but an explosion. The tremor kicked up loose pebbles on the ground, followed by a great many voices. They were not cheering or laughing. They were…
Screaming.
Dante ducked his head low and began to growl, attracting Miguel's attention.
"Dante?" He quickly knelt by the spirit guide's side, having learned to trust him whenever something foul was afoot. "What is it, boy?" he asked, as if expecting the dog to suddenly aquire the power of speech.
Dante offered no response, but jolted an inch forward. Pepita, meanwhile, hopped a couple of crates and leapt to the top of the perimetre wall. Her feline gaze drew across the darkening horizon of slate and steeples.
A great blanket fell upon the Rivera family. The table was not even fully prepared and already it seemed the night was over. Their minds swam with possibilities. Could it be an accident? Or perhaps a natural disaster? Or worse.
Abuelita's brow creased. The broom handle groaned under the intensity of her tightening grip. "Who in their right mind would even think of such a thing, tonight of all nights?"
"Relajarse, Mamá," Enrique said, feeling a lump grow in his throat. "I'm sure it's nothing… too bad."
Enrique approached the main gate and took a peek through the opening. Nothing out of the usual appeared out there except the same street he had walked a million times, along with the same parked cars and the same street lights ornated with papel picado. From around the nearest corner came the patter of soles against cobblestone. A handful of men, women and children ran as if their very lives depended on it.
"Wait, hold on a second," Enrique called out from the gate, "What's going—?"
"Monstruo!" a woman shrieked, glancing over her shoulder as if someone or something were right on her heels. "Monstruo!"
Enrique just stood there with his palms against the rough grain of the gate, watching as they ran. Another person took the adjacent road, followed by a woman and her child – none of them stopping.
Monster?
He had no idea what was going on, but he did know one thing: that avenue led straight to the plaza. The most crowded part of Santa Cecilia on that night.
From far up the street came the low blare of sirens. It rose in volume before hitting a cresendo as a squad of police cars raced past in a flash of blue, red and white. He turned back to the courtyard, to the hushed voices of his family; it looked like the dog's natural instincts were right again. The policia would not be called if it weren't an emergency.
"Enrique, what's happening?" Luisa asked, holding Baby Coco tight to her chest. "Was that the police just now?"
Her husband took a step away from the gate and gently waved toward her. "Take the kids inside, and make sure all the gates and windows are locked. Let's not take any chances."
Luisa had just started to guide the little ones when, all of a sudden, Dante bolted in a barrage of barking.
Miguel reached out. "Dante, no!" he cried, and, without thinking, made a dash after the Xolo dog.
Dante hurried past Enrique and out the entrace, followed closely by Miguel.
"Miguel!" Enrique reached for his son, but snatched empty air. "Don't go out there! It's not safe!"
But it was too late. Both Dante and Miguel ran up the street and around the corner, against a negligible flow of fleeing citizens.
Abuelita cried out. "My sweet child, not again! He'll get hurt out there!" The memories of last year's Dias de los Muertos shot into their minds once more.
Enrique made for the gate. Now, as if the horror of watching her grandson head out into danger wasn't bad enough, she watched as one of her sons also passed the threshold.
"Ay, mijo," Abuelita howled, "not you, too!"
"Keep everyone inside, Mamá," Enrique said, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll be right back."
He took off in a sprint up the street, in the direction of Miguel, determined to lead him back to safety. He would drag him back if he had to. Abuelita watched as he ran out of fear and concern on the Day of the Dead, when they should be together, celebrating, and not being torn apart.
Luisa found the toddlers and began to guide them toward the house. The others – the brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and grandparents of the Rivera family – shared unsure glances, not sure what to do. One or two checked the adjacent gates, making a point of checking the locks and deadbolts.
Meanwhile, in the centre of the courtyard stood an old well. It had seen much usage back in a day that was far behind it, and now it lay boarded up and abandoned. None of the Rivera family noticed the small wisps of white steam emanating from between the gaps.
Those once cheery streets rang hollow as something unnatural – something twisted and cruel – seized it. Dante charged, moving in a beeline and barking endlessly. Miguel was not far behind, slaloming around those fleeing in the opposite direction. The crowds were almost endless in themselves, people wearing masks, make-up and mariachi outfits, and with each passing second, they grew in density.
Miguel breathed fast and shallow, trying to keep up with the spirit guide.
"Dante!" he shouted out. "Wait up!"
On an open stretch of street, one they had treaded many times over, Dante screeched to a halt, kicking up the marigold petals left by other families. Up straight on all fours, he continued his barrage of barking.
Gasping for air, Miguel reached the dog and nearly collapsed beside him, all while the crowd streamed past left and right.
"Come on," he stammered, wrapping a twig arm around the dog, "we shouldn't be out here."
Dante ignored the boy, choosing to howl down the continuously growing street while remaining rooted in place and impervious to the tugging on his neck. Miguel shot looks up the road, but could glean nothing of great danger past the scores of people.
Miguel gave Dante a rub on the back. "It'll be fine, boy. The cops're heading there now – they'll take care of it."
Dante stopped barking and stood both low and as straight as an arrow. The growl he let out told Miguel everything: he was not convinced. Miguel hated to admit it, but even he sounded half-hearted just then. Judging by all those people running, and the explosions they'd heard earlier, it would take more than a few members of the policia to sort out. He almost expected to see helicopters whirling overhead at that very moment.
His ears perked up at the calling of his name. He span around, finding his father not far behind, shoving his way toward him. He eventually had his hands firmly on his son's shoulders. Sweat glistened off his brow.
"Now's not the time to go chasing after cats," he said in a stern tone over the rabble. "It's dangerous out here – we have to get back home. We need to go, now!"
Miguel opened his mouth to respond, but before any words could come out, a threatening feeling formed a dam in his throat. Enrique felt it too: a low rumble pulsed through the cobblestones and up into their bones. Slowly, it rose in volume, along with a rising discord from the direction of the plaza: many, many voices screaming out in anguish, along with something else – something unnatural – that none of them could put their finger on.
Without realising it, Miguel was standing straight. Breathless.
"What… is that…?" he barely breathed.
All eyes were locked on the turn up ahead, where the people funnelled with frantic breath and quick feet. The noise reached its deafening climax as a thick stampede of people clambered down toward them, packed together, and taking every inch of space.
That was not the source of that abnormal noise.
The charge was but specks in the distance when they were suddenly swallowed up by a cloud; a massive, pale fog that crashed into them like a tidal wave. It flooded the street, roaring as it consuming anything and everything in its path. The people vanished as the cloud gobbled them up; its hunger insatiable.
It surged down the street, heading straight toward them.
Enrique snatched his son's hand. "Miguel, RUN!"
As he furiously yanked Miguel in the opposite direction, Dante took off barking straight ahead, toward the incoming flood. Miguel screamed as his last sight of Dante was of him diving headlong into the crowd, vanishing in the throngs of hurrying legs.
"Run!" Enrique yelled. "Don't look back!"
Miguel turned and ran, both he and his father now moving with the crowd. They sprinted as fast as they could, faster than what they thought their bodies would allow. Figures crashed and tumbled around them in their desperate bids to escape. The cloud thundered against every brick and stone, and threatened to smash every window as it rapidly approached, ready to swallow them whole.
Faster they ran, until their hearts wanted to escape their chests and their legs wanted to fall off, and then they ran some more. Enrique quickly felt the strain weigh him down, having no recollection of the last time he had ran. Before he knew it, he went from towing Miguel to being towed himself, as his son overtook him. It was of no surprise – that boy must have ran a marathon every day.
Miguel so wanted to turn around, more than anything. The thought of Dante getting caught in that wave flashed in his mind, as did the thought of how far from their heels it was. Another monstrous noise from the fog made him think otherwise.
They rounded the corner. There is was – their home and proud family business – only a stone's throw away.
A few steps behind, the cloud crashed into the junction the two were at seconds earlier.
At the gate, there was Berto and Abel, waving frantically toward themselves and shouting. Their voices were drowned out in a sea of terror. Both Miguel and Enrique approached, desparate to get inside.
As they neared, they were able to make out what they were saying:
"Have you lost your mind, Abuelita?" Abel shouted.
"For once in your life, Mamá," shouted Berto, "stop being so fearless!"
Enrique and Miguel were almost taken aback by this. Abuelita? Mamá? They were not calling out for them, but for…
"How dare you!" A familiar screech rang nearby. "This is the one night my Mamá gets to come home! You will not ruin this night for her!"
There, outside the safety of their home and hobbling against the rush, was Abuelita Elena, with the dusty broom in one hand and a sandal in the other. Both Miguel and Enrique had missed her as they passed, nearly stopping in their tracks upon realising their mistake.
"Wait, Mamá!" Enrique reached out to her. "Don't—!"
Miguel glanced over his shoulder; now it was his turn to do the dragging. There was no time for words or for any thoughts. With a harsh tug, he pulled his father past his uncle and cousin and through the open gate.
As they swung the gate shut, their last sight of their grandmother was of her being consumed by the wave.
Berto and Abel threw their frames against the gate, feeling a tremor as whatever from outside slammed against it. The two then held firm, their shoulders against the rough grain and their hearts like jackhammers in their chests, as an unholy sound of howling and crying rang from the street.
Enrique and Miguel stood panting, with hands braced on knees; their bodies wanted to give up on them. Without waiting to catch his breath, Enrique span around and faced the heavens to where stone met starlit sky, catching wisps of the evil air like pale, skeletal fingers seeking to scale the wall.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Mamá! Please tell us you're okay out there!"
They waited with baited breath for a response of some kind such as a shout back or a tap against the stone. Even if she flung her other sandal over the perimeter and struck one of them on the head, that would have still sufficed as a legitimate reply. They waited, but nothing came expect the jumbled cries of those caught outside.
"Mamá!" Enrique shouted again.
Still no answer.
The courtyard went silent. Everyone exchanged unsure glances and hushed words. Had they just lost Abuelita Elena?
"It's going to be okay…" Berto whispered. His back, pressed against the door, felt the beating of many fists from the other side. "Nobody knows her like we do. They'll be more afraid of her than she is of them."
"Ye-yeah, Tío Enrique. I'm sure… uh…" Abel glanced at Berto for a line, and received only a shrug in response. "I'm sure she's fine. She's the toughest lady I know."
All the while, Miguel's mouth hung limp, wanting to speak, but nothing came out. Even with his unique experience of death and the afterlife, he still was at a loss for words. The loss of Mamá Coco still cut deep, despite knowing what he did. He could not bear the thought of losing Abuelita, too. She may have been hard on him, but she was her way of showing that she cared.
Then there was Dante, who had rushed into the thick of it at the worst possible time. He still could not understand that dog sometimes, disappearing and reappearing often at the strangest moments.
He closed his eyes and attempted to block the anxiety out, at least for a few seconds. With nothing except the darkness beneath his eyelids, he focused on his breathing, then on his heartrate. Still, there were the voices calling from outside, the quiet exchanges from inside, and the hissing noise coming from—
"Huh?" Miguel murmured, shooting his head up. "Hey, guys, do you hear that?"
He perked his ears up, picking up something in the background that he had not noticed until now. Everyone else heard it, as well – a low hiss from somewhere nearby, and it sounded like it was getting louder.
Tío Berto squinted. "Where's that coming fro—?" He suddenly pointed to the centre of the courtyard. "There!"
All eyes were drawn in the direction in which he pointed. To the abandoned well. Beards of white drifted from openings in the timber, and they were growing in numbers and intensity. The hiss continued to rise in volume and the boards began to quiver, like water in a kettle. It was going to blow!
The concern turned from the well to those around it, that being Carmen, Gloria and Franco, who had not spotted the approaching danger until it was too late.
Miguel reached for them. "Get away from there!"
The weathered timbers popped a few feet off the well. Great plumes of mist erupted into the courtyard, engulfing those nearest without any time to react.
"No!" Berto cried, instinctively stepping away from the gate. As soon as he did, it slammed against him as a group of crazed people barged their way in. "No, no!" He and Abel tried to reseal it, but the numbers overwhelmed them, as did the fog. Both of them went down.
Enrique and Miguel froze, trapped between the massive leak and the bottleneck – both of which had claimed many of their family.
"Get in here, quick!" someone called out.
They both turned and found, just across from them at the door to the living room, Luisa along with baby Coco, Rosa, and the little ones.
Rosa screamed, "Mamá! Papá! Abel!" She wanted to run out to help, but her Aunt held her back.
Enrique took Miguel by the wrist and the two sprinted across the yard, diving headlong through the faint wisps. They shot a quick glance to the side, finding members of their family succumbing to the same infliction that had claimed all the others. Franco had curled up against the far wall. Gloria had dropped to her knees and covered her eyes. Abel began to rave about jellyfish; letting him watch Finding Nemo all those years back was a mistake.
After bursting through the wisps, they funneled through the door and slammed it.
Enrique kept moving. Even inside their home, they were not safe, not as the windows around them fogged up and tiny tendrils seeped in through every nook and cranny. Ignorning the words from his family, he made his way across the room, leading everyone toward the hall.
The toddlers held each other close. Little Coco buried herself deeply against her mother's chest.
Miguel inhaled and felt a searing hot sensation in his throat. He masked a cough as the weight of his own skull lifted. The room took a turn and he needed to blink hard to refrain from toppling.
He must have breathed in some of that air when they ran across the courtyard.
In the modest hall lay a closet – a regular little storage area for shoes, coats and whatever miscellaneous junk they decided to stuff in there. After opening the thin, timber door, Enrique was disheartened to discover that his own recollection depicted the closet larger than it was. His brow hardened; no way were all of them getting in.
He made his decision. "Luisa, there's enough room for you and the kids," he said. "You'll be safe in here."
"And leave you out here?" Luisa protested.
"Don't argue with me now," Enrique said, already herding her inside. "Please."
Without another word, Luisa ducked into the opening, holding little Coco tight. Rosa followed next, hunching in the sparse spot beside her Auntie. A jacket budged against her head and hung like a cloak. The two kids took up what little space was left at the feet of the women.
Enrique sighed in frustration. There was no room for his son.
"What about you, Tío Enrique?" Rosa asked.
"We'll find somewhere else," he responded as he began to swing the door shut. He stopped a moment before he did so, and said, "don't come out until one of us gets back," and then closed the door fully.
Miguel leaned against the wall. With each hard blink, the hallway grew in length and the single shaded lightbulb above grew dimmer. His heart was like a stampede in his chest. In and out, he took quick, rapid breaths, unable to steady himself. He swallowed and tasted a stale, wet sensation on his tongue. For some reason – a reason why he couldn't explain – the young Miguel Rivera… wanted to go home.
The quick but gentle hands of his father fell upon his shoulders, snapping him back to life.
"Are you okay, my son?" At first, Enrique's words did not registered. He was like a blur until Miguel gritted his teeth and shook himself awake.
"Yeah, I'm okay," Miguel answered with a quiver in his tone. "I'm just feeling a little—"
A thud came from back in the living room, accompanied by many fearful voices. One of which droned on about jellyfish. Of course the door wasn't going to keep them back forever. To make matters worse, a window at the far end popped open slightly, allowing more of the cursed mist to enter.
Up ahead, three more doors awaited. The two moved up and took the first on the left. Miguel's bedroom.
There was his room, with everything in the usual spot. His framed bed with the neutral sheets and grooved pillows. His wardrobe adorned with stickers of cartoon characters and chibi lucador wrestlers, full of his shirts, pants, shorts and shoes. His desk carried the weight of his books, games, and his schoolbag. In the corner where he'd last left it, his beloved guitar. While a few things were sure to collect dust, the guitar was never one of them.
"Get inside, quickly," his father ordered.
Miguel obeyed without question and jumped right in. Standing in the middle of his own room, he turned around. Enrique had not followed, but remained at the threshold.
"Papá?" Miguel whispered.
His father just smiled. His look said it all.
"Get to your safe place, Miguel."
Enrique slammed the door shut.
Miguel ran back as a great terror gripped him. "No, Papá!"
Just then, more streams of white wisped from the gap at the bottom of the door.
He stood there, speechless and alone. A great weight latched onto him. His father had been taken.
As his room slowly filled, he knew it would take him too unless he did something.
On that night, the streets would be basking in last night festivities, as the citizens celebrated their special day, even if it were just that one night. Scarecrow, treading those misty lanes, took a large air of satisfaction as he saw the extent of his actions. Those same people who ran and cheered and sang in jubilation, now cowered and cried and screamed in terror.
Taking over the town was child's play. Not even the cops they sent put up much of a fight. Beneath their gruff exteriors, shaped facial hair and unshaped frames, they were all children playing with toy guns and plastic badges.
To his left: a man clawed at a wooden door, a group fled from imaginary monsters, and a women and two children lay huddled under a parked truck, whimpering at the monstrous world beyond their hiding spot.
To his right: a hyperventilating woman with her back pressed tight against a wall, a boy rolling around on the path as he tried to get the roaches off of himself, and a short, crying elderly lady; one of her sandals was missing.
"No… No, Mamá! I'm sorry!" the old woman cried as she faced empty, misty air. Her wrinkled cheeks glinstened with tears. "I tried! I tried so hard to keep the family together, Mamá!" She reached out, clawing at nothing. "No! Don't leave me, Mamá! I'm sorry! Please don't be sad!"
Onward, Scarecrow walked, paying the woman no attention, but still feeling the corners of his lips curve upwards regardless.
Ahead, scrawled on a peeling wall, another sign materialised. The text was barely legible from a combination of both the fog and the age of the paint. Squinting, he thought he made out… Rivera Familia Zapatos.
He clicked his tongue. "Shoes," he said. "Out of all the professions, they pick shoes."
In the little research he had done regarding the town, and in the weeks that followed, this place had popped up a few times. Strangely, this little independent family cobblers became known to him for reasons other than shoes. They say that this place had a memorial of its own, dedicated to some guy named… what was it again? Hernan? Hermes? Herberto? Who cares?
Scarecrow was about to carry on his way when a clank from above, which sounded like shifting roof tiles, caught his attention. He drew his eyes upwards and found a figure hoisting himself onto the roof before staggering upright and exhaling a gulp of air that sounded like they had been holding it in for a while. At first, he thought the figure was large in stature, mighty and dark – almost like he had just been located by the same man who thawed all his plans back in Gotham. Scarecrow chocked a gasp, but upon doing a double take, the figure appeared to be nothing more than a boy. A scrawny one at that.
Someone could use a sandwich. Scarecrow watched as the boy with limp, black hair and dressed in nothing more than a worn pair of jeans and a shirt, stumbled with a low, catlike gait across the roof, giving the impression that he had done it before.
He made his way toward the large boot insignia gacing the top of their business, pushing it aside, and crawled in through the opening.
Scarecrow rubbed his chin. "This could be interesting."
Miguel pushed across the wooden boot sign and squeezed his way back into his not-so-secret hideaway. The light was sparse and the air was stale and stuffy having allowed the dust to reclaim it after abandoning this place a year ago, when he no longer had to hold the secret of his love for music from his family. He had made the perilous trek across the roof many times, but that time felt different. Had seldom remembered the roof being so high up, or the tiles being as rickety as they were.
He crawled over to the moth-eaten curtain and brushed it apart. His ofrenda to the greatest musician of all time, Ernesto de la Cruz, stood basking in the warm candlelight. All his records, his movies, his ornaments, trinkets, posters and tributes had been arranged with much care. An old television in the centre played, in glorious black and white, the iconic moment when he performed Ámame más to a beautiful young lady standing at a balcony, under a fake, hanging moon.
Miguel gasped and his heart leapt a mile. He shook his head, blinked, and then everything was gone. The compartment lay bare and sooty, save for the empty shelves, a couple crates, a broken fan, some empty soda bottles, and the same TV in which the screen had remained blank for some time now. The VHS no longer held that videotape anymore.
He remembered. After returning to the land of the living, one of Miguel's first orders of business (after helping his great-grandmother remember her father, and explaining his disappearance to his family… poorly) was taking one last trip up to his sanctuary and removing whatever memorabilia of his fallen, former idol was left after his family had discovered it. Ironically, the stuff that they did bring down, his father had spent hours petitioning against his mother's insistency to throw it in the garbage, especially considering the incident involving the homemade guitar. Enrique was in for quite the surprise when the stuff he had saved from the trash heap… promptly ended up on their sidewalk for two days before it was collected and sent to the trash heap.
Miguel crawled across and crashed against the shelves at the far end, getting a moment to breathe and think. His heart refused to steady despite his efforts, and his breathing remained shallow; the very air choked his lungs, bringing about a nauseating feeling of claustrophobia as the ceiling closed in on him. He could not tell if the compartment had gotten smaller or if he had gotten bigger.
During the days when music was forbidden, the timber did little to block any noises from getting out. He had to be extra quiet to stop his family from hearing him. Now, they were just as effective at stopping the outside carnage from getting in. Every crash, every cry for help and every scream reached him, especially those from down below.
What was the thirteen-year-old Miguel Rivera going to do? Assuming he could somehow get out of town without getting caught by that gas – then what? How would he call for help? If he could call for help, who would he call? More police? The Army? The Navy? A superhero? Would anyone even listen to him?
Whatever that gas was, it had claimed his entire family, and it could claim him too unless he did something, and fast.
Another noise cut through the rabble: a thud, followed by the groaning of wood, then footsteps. Someone else had entered his hideaway.
Miguel watched the curtain like a hawk, unblinking and barely breathing.
"Dante?" he whispered, slowly rising onto his heels. "Is that you?"
He waited with anxious breath, hoping for his hairless friend to come bounding in in his own clumsy fashion.
Miguel edged closer to the curtain. "Come here, boy," he said. His arm was outstretched, eager to feel something other than dread. "Rapido."
The curtain flung to one side. Dante was not who he was talking to, but a man with the burlap mask, who flashed a crooked smile.
Miguel, startled, tripped backward, stifling a scream, and slammed the back of his head against a shelf, sending a sharp pain through his skull.
"Nice place you got here," the man said while the boy tended to his head. Ghoulish orange light resonated from the eyes and mouth openings.
Miguel gritted his teeth as he eyed the stranger before him, feeling a cold shiver run up his spine. The man was tall and appeared quite spindly as he was hunched there, almost like a spider was guarding the only exit. He wanted to believe he was dreaming, but he could not deny that he was face to face with an American supervillain.
"You're…" he stammered. "You're Scarecrow."
"So you've heard of me," Scarecrow said, cocking his head.
"Yeah, I've read all the stories." Miguel finished massaging the pain down until only a dull throb remained. "You're a long way from Gotham, you know."
Scarecrow shrugged. "What can I say? Thought I'd look for greener pastures, even if they are a little more barren than I'd like. Still, it's a pleasure to see that my reputation proceeds me."
"Oh, you've got a reputation, all right." Miguel shot the supervillain a defiant grin. "For getting your sorry butt kicked by Batman. That's how all the stories about you end. Every. Single. Time."
The unnerving noises from down below reverberated through the boards, almost wiping the smile off his face. He tried to hold strong.
"Whatever you've done to the town and to my family," he continued, "you won't get away with it – you never do! Someone'll drag you all the way back to Arkham Asylum, where you belong."
"Oh?" Scarecrow leaned forward, gripping the edges of the crevice; pale moonlight glinted off the needles on his gauntlets. "And who's going to kick my figurative posterior back to the madhouse this time? You?"
Miguel's smile faded. He stumbled with his next words while unsure where to focus his sights on. Despite his bravado, he was still just a cornered rat in a maze. One aspiring, teenage musician versus Gotham's living nightmare. Where was the fairness in that?
Scarecrow's eyes flared. "Wait," he said. "I think I know you, as well. You're that Rivera boy, aren't you?"
He drew pleasure from the brief moment of which the boy's brown eyes widened. Meanwhile, a pang of fear shot through Miguel's chest. The last thing he needed was to be recognised by a supervillain.
Scarecrow continued, "You told me my story, so it's only fair I tell you yours. Your town once revered a great man. A musician. A movie star. A legend." His words were slow and perfectly picked. "For decades, he was celebrated; his name a shining star upon Mexico. His statue stood tall and proud; his tomb, an encrusted jewel in your town."
His tone shifted.
"Then… that all changed. He went from being Santa's Cecilia's most celebrated person to its most reviled. His name scorned; his reputation tarnished; his tomb abandoned, all in less than a year." His glowing eyes narrowed. "And you played a pivotal role in that change, Rivera. You were instrumental in exposing his crimes – crimes which had been buried for almost a hundred years, long before your time."
All the while, Miguel was speechless. As if just being recognised was bad enough, now he was having his whole life story recited to him by someone who used Spanish as a second language. Even if Scarecrow did get the occasional inflection off by a smidgen, his Español remained impeccable. If only Miguel's English was just as good. Clases de inglés was mandatory at school, and he was good at a lot of thing, but he had yet to excel at that. The best he could hope to retort with was to ask for directions to the nearest restroom.
On went the Scarecrow: "They say you vanished last year, on the Day of the Dead – eager to follow in the footsteps of your hero, and returned the following morning completely changed. No longer did you look up to this De la Cruz character, but instead, a faceless man from your family tree, whose name was all but forgotten until then. Now he stands as the unsung hero of your town."
He leaned further forward.
"I wonder: where did you go, Rivera, to have your beliefs so drastically changed? What did you find, exactly? What did you see?"
Miguel bit his lip. A bead of sweat ran cold down his brow.
"I get the feeling…" He mumbled a moment, feeling a twitch in his fingers. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."
Scarecrow tipped his head the other way. "What gives you that impression?"
"You may be an evil villain, but you're still a doctor, right?"
"Graduated top of my class in psychology."
Miguel swallowed down a dry laugh that rose in his throat. Somehow, he sincerely doubted that.
"And if you know about the Day of the Dead," he said – choosing his words carefully – "then you must know what happens tonight, right?"
"I've gotten the basics down," said Scarecrow. "It's cute, actually. When you're not strong enough to let go of those you love, just put their picture up on a shelf and waste food by leaving it out by their grave to keep their little, ghostly spirit nice and happy."
"So… not a believer, huh?" Miguel asked, feeling the corners of Miguel's lips curve up a little.
Scarecrow scoffed. "Please," he answered, shaking his head. "Your little holiday is nothing more than a fairy-tale invented to fill empty space. Ghosts. Valhalla. Heaven. Paradise. Reincarnation. What are these but human constructs desperate to stave off the fear of the inevitable and eternal darkness that is death? Your precious Dias de los Muertos is no different."
"Yeah… that's what I thought, too. Last year." Miguel turned to the floor, gazing at the notches and dust bunnies around his feet. "My family used to hate music. They were worried it would make me abandon my family to chase fame and glory, like Héc… like my great-great grandfather."
His eyes shut as he recollected the day that turned his life upside-down. "There was this talent show I wanted to play in. I wanted to be like De La Cruz. I spent weeks building my own guitar – I painted it and tuned it and everything, but they wouldn't let me. They warned me I would be forgotten and that my photo would never be on an ofrenda, and I remember… I said to my abuelita… that I didn't care if I was on some stupid ofrenda.
"Then she broke my guitar, and I ran away. I… did something I shouldn't have…" Miguel snapped back to the there and now. "And then… I saw it." He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and looking the supervillain straight in his glowing eyes. "I thought the Day of the Dead was all made up, but no. Everything about tonight is true – all of it. The ofrendas, the offerings, the petals – everything. I met my ancestors, and I crossed over to the Land of the Dead, and I learned the truth about my family: I learned that De La Cruz murdered my great-great grandfather and stole his songs.
"You really want to know what I found?" Miguel's brow creased. "I found the true person who made me who I am. Take it or leave it."
At first, his statement was met with silence. Scarecrow studied that unrelenting gaze, searching for any sign of doubt, to which he found none. The story was still a new one to him. As a psychologist, he had heard countless testimonies from all sorts of people with all sorts of problems. From those afraid of the mundane, like spiders, flying, water and high places, to the more bizarre and unique fears, such as peaches, word-searches, balloons and ducks following their every move. After a while, they all began to blend into one another, and yet, there was no place for him to categorise that story, that a boy travelled beyond death to the next world over. It stuck out as easily the most unique story he had ever heard weaved.
"Well, that was quite the speech you gave there," he said nonetheless, "and quite the active imagination you got."
Miguel rolled his eyes. "I said you wouldn't believe me."
Scarecrow drummed the needles against the timber. "Perhaps not. However, if you've truly been to the Land of the Dead, then you must know what lies beyond the veil. Tell me: even after all that, do you still fear death?"
Without waiting for an answer, he pushed himself away and drew the curtain back.
"If you don't, then we'll see what you do fear."
Just as he finished that sentence, a small hiss filled the compartment as it began to fill with white gas.
Miguel gasped and scrambled to his feet, slamming his head against the ceiling as the wisps began to swim around his ankles. He made a mad dash for the only exit, hoping maybe he could duke past the villain, only to slam into an immovable block behind the curtain. Scarecrow had sealed the way out. Miguel put all his strength into it, but it was no use.
In almost no time at all, the fear toxin was up to his waist.
He scanned the angled walls, spotting open patches where the night air could enter. Trying to pry them open proved as fruitful as the only exit out of there. Nothing else remained except the confines of his timber prison.
Miguel inhaled and once more felt that sharp heat as the toxin burnt his throat. It was up to his neck now. He rose himself to the highest point of the ceiling, placing pressure on his hunched knees, and drew one final gulp of air. With puffed out cheeks, he rushed around every expanse of the compartment, hoping and praying for a way out.
He turned back to the empty shelves, where the ofrenda once stood, and then the ceiling appeared higher than he remembered. The roof began to rise, as did the shelf, which grew extra levels that formed a ladder.
With his face turning blue, Miguel saw no other option but to brave the ascent.
He rushed over, placed one boot on the lowest rung and hoisted himself up as far as he could reach, clutching a ledge with the tips of his fingers. The wood groaned, but supported his weight. Finally above the toxin, Miguel gasped, then inhaled deeply.
Higher and higher, the ceiling rose and more levels slotted out the wall. Miguel glanced down, finding the gushes of white rising at his heels. He climbed fast to avoid the tide, placing one unsteady foothold and handhold after another, hearing the wood churn and twist, and feeling tension build in his skinny body.
Was his home really this tall? He could have sworn he had climbed a mountain's height, and still there was no end up above or escape from below.
Then, from above, a light. A silhouette of a man formed, looking down.
"Quickly, boy," the man said, then reached down. "Take my hand!"
Spurred by a sudden spark, Miguel scrambled as fast as he could and reached up, stretching himself beyond what he thought possible. His hand found that man's and latched on tight.
"Th-thanks…" Miguel said as the man pulled him up, only now realising how exhausted his own body had become. "I…"
The light faded, and he saw the face of his saviour. A face he wished he would never see again, and yet there it was, staring at him with those same green eyes and immaculate show of teeth. That of his former idol, Ernesto De La Cruz.
"Remember me?" he said.
Miguel screamed. His grip slipped.
Gravity took over. Ernesto's piercing gaze watched unblinking and unchanging for one second before being obscured by a white blur.
Fear swallowed Miguel whole.