DEMON OF THE NIGHT

Written By: A.B. MOUTON

I remember that night well. Very well. It was 1988, and freezing in Gotham City. A massive cold front was going to hit that day, yet the boys and I were still going out for that night's score.

For those who don't know, Gotham is basically just an abandoned New York that's still on life support. It's nothing like the postcards. It's a run-down, gothic hellhole that at first glance doesn't even seem physically possible in terms of architecture. In fact, it almost looked like the whole city was being held together solely by pipes and sewage; an old dream dead. In short, it was the perfect place for the wicked to flourish, or at least it seemed that way.

Before I continue, allow me to tell you a bit about my 'rap sheet'. I have been arrested several times for robbery. I grew up in a very impoverished community. Many kids looked up to you as a deity if you had as much as a single loaf of bread. Almost every kid there was a petty thief at best, and eventually I became a crook myself.

In Gotham, almost everyone who lived there was a crook, a corrupt politician, or a simple victim. There were numerous gangs around the town. One of the biggest used to be run by Carl Grissom before he died and Joker took over. I deeply regret it now, but of course, that is not what I'm writing this about.

That night. That Godforsaken night of many. It was 28 out, and we were told to break into the Flugelheim Museum and take whatever we could: paintings, busts, statues, whatever.

I didn't know why, but when we got there in a fleet of two 1939 Cadillac 61s, my partners were as pale as ghosts, but with a stern determination.

We put on our face masks and sheathed our pistols. Alex, Baker, myself, Stanley, Kilmer and Keaton were adorned with frock coats and fedoras on. I had to admit, I thought we looked cool, like we stepped out of a noir. The six of us walked very slowly across the sidewalk. When we got there, we pulled out a bolt cutter. The double doors were locked with a thick metal chain, yet the cutter cut through it with perfection. We started to open the doors, which were so heavy that when they creaked it was terrifyingly loud. Five ducked down. I did too. We looked across the street for what seemed like eternity, hands on our weapons, and sweating bullets. Nothing.

We fully opened the doors, revealing a large dark space. We trekked down through the vast space lit only by the bright blue moon. The displayed art was astounding. There were works of Rembrandt, Vermeer, an incomplete portrait of George Washington from someone named Gilbert Stuart. We started to take the portraits off the walls. I personally took the Washington portrait. We split up, stanching the maquettes and paintings into giant garbage bags. I was bagging the Stuart painting when one work caught my eye. It was a large figure seeming to devour a child's left arm. A child who was already missing his right arm and head. That painting deeply disturbed me. I knew it a mere canvas, but it felt so real.

That's when I heard something. We turned towards the bathroom. The men's room door opened. Our leader Alex asked me to take 'em out. I was willing to make money, but I could never, no, would never take a life to do so.

"Kill him!", he said again.

A guard came out. One of the men, Baker, drew a silenced 1911. The guard tried to draw, but was too slow. The guard's chest gushed blood as he fell to the ground.

Baker approached the barely alive guard, who was inching away, reaching for his revolver. He stepped on his hand, raising the pistol to his head, and the guard's head ruptured, with a pool of blood oozing out. He fired four more shots into his chest and legs. Alex scolded him about the brutality of the kill, but he brushed it off as if it didn't even happen. We turned away and discussed what to do about Baker.

Questions like, "Should we turn him in?" "Make it seem like he was the only one here?" were thrown around.

Then I heard something. Something that made a rustling noise, like that of a curtain in the wind. I absentmindedly looked to my right, and Baker was suddenly yanked upwards by his leg, flying above towards the ceiling. He didn't even have time to cry out, to scream, to do anything. Everyone else turned after I did, and we saw the body of Baker hung by his foot from a thin cable. The other end was tied off on one of the metal beams that held up the roof and skylight. He swayed from the cable, almost as if he was being blown in a breeze. That's when I heard that rustling sound again.

It went everywhere, not seeming to come from any specific area. It was fast. Very fast, and sounded like heavy fabric or leather. The others started to become pale again, but I didn't know why.

"Guys, let's beat it!", Keaton said.

"Calm down.", Stanley chuckled. "Stop believing ghost stories."

I was confused, and didn't know what they meant by 'ghost stories', so I casually asked as we left with our loot. And that's when Kilmer chimed in, and man was it a tale.

"They call him the Bat."

Stanley was scoffing, not believing it one bit, yet Kilmer continued.

"He roams the streets of this city, neither beast nor man, but something monstrous, something demonic. He can't be killed. He drinks blood. Not only that, but he…"

"Bullshit.", I retorted.

Oh, how wrong was I. While we were heading towards the first car with our prizes, we saw something on-top of a gargoyle, crouched down like it was part of the architecture, but it wasn't artificial. Thinking nothing of it, we walked by to the ride and started to drive away. While on the road, I couldn't get the visual of a dead Baker hanging by his feet out of my head. When I got back to reality, I noticed how truly silent everyone inside was. Not a word was spoken. Not even a glance at anyone. The sound of the engine was starting to put me to sleep. And then I heard a pop! Something exploded, and the car was beginning to fishtail! Alex was trying to regain control, but he couldn't! The car kept on until it turned over, and then I saw nothing, nothing but blackness.

When I came to, the car was resting on its roof. Everyone was able to get out alright. We tried to wrestle the artwork out of the back, but we couldn't because the trunk door was pinned down. Luckily the car didn't suffer much damage, so the artwork was safe. We drew our guns thinking the GCPD would surround us any second, but they didn't come. In fact, there was no one but ourselves on the street.

We started to look around the car, trying to determine what caused the tire to explode, and then Keaton found a shuriken embedded in the tire, but that wasn't the weird thing about it. It was shaped like a bat.

That's when Keaton probably soiled himself, and that was when I turned around absentmindedly, and saw a tall black figure just eight feet away from me. It looked human, but exaggerated — no, corrupted. It had black wings that covered his whole body. There were these tall ears that ended in sharp points. It had large triangular eyes that seemed to stare through me even though there seemed to be no pupils. Like a tiger, it somehow appeared without us even noticing.

What happened after that was a blur: sounds of bullets flying, horrid screams, people being beaten and bloodied. It was hell — absolute hell. They were dead — all dead. I ran, and ran, and ran. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't confronting that thing.

I kept the pistol close and leapt into a back alley, where the thing walked by. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my very being, and I could barely hear anything. I started to panic. I started to cry. That gave me away. It didn't make a sudden theatrical appearance like last time. It just rounded the corner and slowly walked towards me. I couldn't move, for I was cornered. That's when it grabbed me by my collar and held me up against a wall. For the first time I saw his blue eyes, and the hint of a human face. It wasn't a creature, just a man, yet it didn't make the situation any better. He shook me with the grip of a bear, and I was sobbing. I begged him not to hurt me, not to kill me. I asked him why he couldn't just turn us in. Why did he kill them? I told him the truth. I didn't kill that man. His grip loosened, but not by much, and he spoke.

He said in this soft raspy voice, "You think I don't know that? I'll tell you something kid. They are not dead."

He let me go, and I fell to the ground, not daring to look away. I slowly got up, and started to back away. He kept his glare at me without even turning. I looked away for a moment, and then back, and he was a mere foot away from me.

"I'll be watching you.", he said.

He threw something at his feet, and a cloud of smoke enveloped him. A second or two later, he flew away, disappearing into the night. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of the emblem just below his mask. It was a yellow oval with a bat symbol in the center.

I left Gotham after that, vowing to never return to my criminal ways. I leave this warning to those who do wrong in this sanctuary:

Beware of the Batman.