5 Scary Stories for a Dark Knight Read online

  Copyright © 2022 DC. BATMAN and all related characters and elements © & ™ DC. WB SHIELD: ™ & © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. (s22)

  Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, 1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019, and in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN 9780593483985 (hc) — ISBN 9780593483992 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9780593484005

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter One: Picture Impurrrfect

  Chapter Two: The Bats in the Wall

  Chapter Three: The Seeds of Doom

  Chapter Four: Ghost in the Machine

  Chapter Five: The Last Laugh

  Catwoman was on the prowl, jumping from roof to roof as the rain poured down. She didn’t mind the weather. This was one cat who wasn’t scared of a little water, especially when she had her heart set on a prize.

  News had reached her of a private art collection on Gotham City’s West Side, the glittering playground of the city’s rich and powerful, with its gleaming skyscrapers and luxury apartments. Here, those with money thought they were safe from the city’s criminal community. Selina Kyle was about to show one unfortunate citizen how wrong they were.

  She found the apartment in no time, waiting patiently on a neighboring rooftop for its occupant to go out for the evening. Catwoman tensed as a limo pulled up in front of the building, and her mark immediately dashed out to it, the collar of his coat turned up against the cold. She watched, the long car’s glowing headlights disappearing into the gathering fog. Then she struck.

  Yes, the spacious apartment, with its priceless collection of paintings and trinkets, had a security system, an extremely sophisticated one at that, but there wasn’t an alarm in Gotham City that Catwoman couldn’t deactivate. She was inside within seconds, padding from room to room until she found what she was looking for. Her informer had told her about one particular painting, a rare piece that was worth more than any other work in the collection: The Witch’s Trap, a masterpiece talked about in hushed tones by collectors and critics alike. A masterpiece very few people had ever seen.

  And there it was, taking pride of place in the owner’s study. A portrait, framed above a mahogany desk.

  A portrait that was…hideous. Grotesque.

  Is this it? Catwoman thought, staring at the canvas, a shiver of disgust running down her spine. Who in their right mind would want this watching over them?

  The portrait was of a young woman, barely older than Catwoman herself. She had raven hair and shocking blue eyes that were wide with fright and rage. Most portraits showed their subjects sitting motionless, staring calmly out of the canvas, but this woman was screaming, her palms facing out as if pressed against glass. She looked for all the world like a prisoner within the frame, desperate to escape. Catwoman knew what that felt like from her time locked up in Blackgate Penitentiary. She had vowed never to be behind bars again, which meant never getting caught.

  She needed to move. The longer she remained here, staring at the picture, the more chance there was that she would be discovered. Then why did she hesitate? Why hadn’t she already snatched the painting from the wall and slipped back out into the night?

  Because her skin was crawling beneath her catsuit. There was something about the painting that made her feel nervous and unnerved—repulsed, even—a sixth sense warning her that something wasn’t right.

  But that was stupid. She was Catwoman. Stealing jewelry and paintings was second nature. She’d been doing it since she was a kitten. Besides, she didn’t have to like a portrait to get rich selling it on the black market.

  Not wanting to stare into those haunted eyes a moment longer, Catwoman carefully lifted the frame from its hook and prepared to make her exit.

  That was when she heard the voice, an eerie rasp like a dry brush being dragged across canvas.

  Freee meeeeeeee.

  Catwoman cried out in shock, dropping the painting. The frame clattered to the floor and Catwoman half expected the noise to bring Batman smashing through the window. She waited, breathing heavily, but no one came. Not the store owner returning early, and not the Bat.

  Good. She had wasted enough time.

  Recovering the frame, she was about to leave, when she noticed something that made her hiss with annoyance. The portrait had been damaged in the fall, a small tear in the canvas across one of the young woman’s palms. Could it be repaired? Gingerly, Catwoman examined the rip with one of her claws. Maybe it wasn’t that bad after all.

  Oh, how wrong she was.

  Catwoman cried out in surprise as a pale hand burst out of the painting, ice-cold fingers closing tight around her wrist.

  She struggled, trying to pull away, but the hand wouldn’t let go. Her eyes met those of the woman in the painting, and Catwoman screamed.

  * * *

  Batman’s eyes narrowed when he saw The Witch’s Trap later that night. He had been called to the private collection by Commissioner Gordon when the owner had raised the alarm, returning home to find the security system deactivated. Nothing had been taken, not even The Witch’s Trap, although the portrait had been thrown on the floor of the study.

  But that wasn’t the most disturbing thing. The portrait had changed.

  Gone was the picture of the raven-haired woman trying to escape. In her place was Catwoman, captured in the same exact pose, gloved hands pressed against the canvas and a silent scream on her lips.

  “What do you think?” Commissioner Gordon asked.

  “It’s a startling likeness,” Batman said, looking grimly at the tortured portrait of his sometimes friend, sometimes rival.

  “But it shouldn’t look like that,” the owner said, wringing his hands. “The Witch’s Trap shows a young woman with black hair. This is obviously not the original.”

  “Could Catwoman have swapped the real portrait for this…fake?” Gordon wondered aloud.

  “But why leave a clue to her crime?” Batman asked. “Selina isn’t The Riddler. And if this is a forgery—”

  “It’s an extraordinary one,” the owner confirmed. “The brushwork…the colors…They perfectly match the original. If I didn’t know better, I would say the portrait was painted over two hundred years ago.”

  “Who was the original artist?” Batman asked.

  “Augustus Nightstorm,” the owner replied, looking pleased that he knew something the World’s Greatest Detective did not. “An old seventeenth-century Gothamite with a somewhat shady reputation.”

  “Shady how?” Gordon asked.

  “He was rumored to have dabbled in the occult. Witchcraft. Sorcery. Arcane knowledge. That kind of thing.”

  “Hence The Witch’s Trap,” the commissioner said. “Do we know who the woman was? In the original, I mean.”

  The owner shook his head. “No one knows for sure. Some people say her name was Hilda…Hilda Grimling, I think, but that’s as far as the stories go.”

  “Not much to go on,” Jim Gordon said, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to Batman. “Do you know anything about the painting?”

  “No,” Batman admitted, still examining the canvas. “But the name of the artist is familiar.”

/>   “Augustus Nightstorm?”

  Batman nodded. “There’s an art dealer with the same surname who has a gallery in the Downtown area of Gotham City, just across from the Narrows.”

  The owner raised his eyebrows. “Are you a collector yourself, Batman?”

  The Dark Knight didn’t answer. It would have been too complicated to explain that his alter ego, billionaire Bruce Wayne, had met a curious man by the name of Theodore Nightstorm at a charity gala not long before. The art dealer had certainly left an impression, with his long beaklike nose and shock of bright red hair. And then there had been the strange pendant he wore—a human eye enclosed in a five-pointed star. Something told him that the young man would be able to shed some light on both the original painting and this impressive fake. If it was a fake at all.

  Batman could almost hear Selina’s cries for help as he looked into her painted eyes. Was she in trouble? Was the painting some kind of bizarre ransom note?

  “Could I borrow this?” he asked, holding up the portrait. “For the investigation.”

  “Be my guest,” the owner replied, glancing at where the original had hung on the wall. “It’s fake—no use to me.”

  When he looked back again, Batman was gone.

  “He does that,” Commissioner Gordon told him with a weary smile. “You get used to it…eventually.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take Batman long to track down Theodore Nightstorm’s gallery in the twisting maze of avenues and alleyways that made up Gotham City’s Narrows. The gallery’s metal shutters were down, but they did little to muffle the sudden sound of a scream coming from inside the building. With no way past the shutters, Batman climbed up to the first floor, the portrait slung over his back, and jimmied open the window.

  There were more screams, even louder now, shrill and full of fear. Batman moved silently through the storeroom on the upper level, and swept down the stairs, finding himself in an office. The door, which led into the gallery, stood ajar, and Batman could hear that same scared voice, pleading between screams.

  “Please. Don’t hurt me. It’s not my fault.”

  Batman crept forward and peered through the gap in the door, his eyes going wide beneath his mask.

  The gallery was a wide, elegant space, its walls lined with expensive paintings and intricate sculptures. On one tall pedestal stood a large silver locket encrusted with sparkling gems. By day this would have been a calm and relaxing space, with potential buyers milling around to examine the various works of art. But now, in the dead of night, it was like something from a horror movie.

  Theodore Nightstorm was suspended high above the polished marble floor, his limbs bent at impossible angles, legs and arms tangled as if they were made of rubber. As Batman watched, the dealer’s body folded in on itself like a sheet of paper being crumpled into a ball before it’s thrown in the trash.

  No wonder he was screaming…although his cries were almost drowned out by another sound—peals of harsh, cackling laughter.

  Below Nightstorm was the woman from The Witch’s Trap, her hands raised high above her head. Her long black hair writhed like snakes around her deathly pale face, those startling blue eyes glittering with malevolence. And now she wasn’t screaming. She was grinning wickedly, her hands twisting in the air as she manipulated Nightstorm’s limbs, causing more pain with every twisting movement.

  Batman had no idea how the woman was alive—or how she was making Nightstorm move in such a terrible manner—but he knew she had to be stopped.

  “Put him down,” Batman commanded, bursting into the gallery. “Now.”

  The woman’s head snapped around. An amused expression crossed her sharp features as she looked Batman up and down.

  “And what are you supposed to be?” she said, her voice dangerously low.

  “I am the night,” Batman replied, taking a step forward, “and I cannot allow you to harm that man.”

  “And I cannot allow you to take another step,” the woman responded, bringing down one of her arms with a flourish to point at the Dark Knight.

  Batman stumbled forward, suddenly unable to move. It was as if his feet had been glued to the floor. But how? Was this magic? Had he just been caught in a spell? It didn’t matter. Batman had magic of his own. Pulling a Batarang from his Utility Belt, Batman drew back his arm and let the weapon fly. It spun toward the impossible woman, aiming for her wrist, but she only laughed in amusement.

  “You think I am afraid of a little metal bat?” she asked, flicking her long, slender fingers in the direction of the missile. “The creatures of the night are mine to command.”

  There was a flash of unnatural light and the Batarang changed in mid-flight. One second it was spinning through the air, a thing fashioned of steel by Batman’s own hands, and the next it was flesh and blood, an actual bat, with leathery wings and sharp, pointed fangs. The creature flitted once around the woman before darting back toward Batman, teeth bared.

  Another flick of the witch’s hand and one bat became many, a swarm of tiny snapping mouths that fell upon Batman, clawing at him and tearing his cape as he tried to protect his face.

  “Perhaps now you’ll realize the folly of crossing Hilda Grimling, the most powerful witch who has ever lived,” the woman crowed as the bats sank their teeth into the Dark Knight’s arms. “No one can stop me. Not you, and not that fool of a sorcerer.”

  “Sorcerer?” Batman asked, trying to buy himself time. “What sorcerer?”

  “Augustus Nightstorm,” the woman hissed. “He called me evil—and trapped me in a painting for all time. But I escaped—two hundred and fifty-three years to the day that he’d cast his spell—with a common thief taking my place. Only tonight, as the stars aligned on the anniversary of my being trapped in that miserable painting, could I be released. Lucky for me, but not for her. The moment her claws touched the canvas, I was free…free to take my revenge on the last of Nightstorm’s line.”

  Grimling threw her hands back up toward the tormented art dealer still suspended in the air.

  “You…you shall pay for your ancestor’s crimes,” she said. “You will suffer how I suffered—how no one has suffered before.”

  But someone is suffering, and in the same way, Batman thought from beneath his cape. Selena Kyle was suffering, trapped in the painting that was still slung across his back. For all her crimes, she never deserved that, but how could he rescue her when he couldn’t move? How could he rescue Augustus Nightstorm’s descendant from a fate worse than death?

  Batman tried to jump forward, but his feet were still stuck to the floor. The bats continued to shriek, and Theodore Nightstorm screamed. But were his boots actually still stuck? Had one of them skidded forward, even a fraction? Could he break free?

  “You say you’re all-powerful,” Batman cried out, fighting to be heard over the noise, “but all I’ve seen are a few cheap tricks. Conjuring up a flock of bats? Stopping me from moving? What about some real magic? Maybe your powers have gone weak after so many years of hanging on a wall. Maybe you’re not the witch you thought you were.”

  Grimling’s face darkened. “Not the witch…You have no idea what I can do.”

  “Then show me!” Batman shouted back. “Show us all…unless you’re the one who’s scared.”

  “I’m scared of no one!” the witch thundered, rising into the air in front of him, lightning crackling above her fingers. “Not of you. Not of Nightstorm. But now you will share his punishment. You will learn the true meaning of fear.”

  In an instant, the bats’ fangs were the least of Batman’s worries. At Grimling’s command, a mighty storm blew up in the gallery, with the witch at its center. Paintings were ripped from the walls and they began to spin around and around. Sculptures toppled and crashed to the floor. The locket whipped into the air as its pedestal toppled over. Even the bats were caught in the whirlwind. Lighting f
lashed and the gale blew as Theodore Nightstorm screamed for help in the unnatural wind.

  And Batman’s boots moved.

  Maybe it was the witch’s effort of summoning the storm or the strain of casting so many spells at once, but suddenly Batman was free. The only trouble was that now he had lost his anchor. Batman’s cape billowed as he was plucked from the ground, the painting flying from his back to join the others to dance through the air. Batman was thrown into the tempest, his tattered cape flapping as fragments from shattered sculptures and splinters from smashed frames sliced at his arms.

  He ignored the pain. He drew his grappling hook and aimed, the barbed hook streaking just in front of Grimling’s face.

  “You missed,” the witch jeered, but Batman knew better. The hook found its target, punching cleanly through the largest canvas that was spinning wildly in the wind. Batman pulled sharply, yanking the painting toward him. Grimling turned a second too late, just as the frame smashed against her, knocking her to the floor, where she landed in a heap. Her concentration was broken, and with it her spells. The storm disappeared to nothing, the other frames dropping out of orbit. Only Theodore Nightstorm remained in the air, still suspended near the ceiling.

  Batman pounced, leaping for the witch before she could call on the elemental forces once again. He wasn’t quick enough. Grimling swept up a hand and one of the broken paintings leapt from the floor to slam against the Dark Knight. He swatted it away, only to have another work of art fly toward him. And so the fight went; Grimling sending painting after painting zooming toward him, Batman punching and kicking each one away, gaining ground with every passing second.

  “You can’t win,” Grimling screeched, leaping forward to claw at Batman’s face before he could reach her. Now it was the Dark Knight’s turn to snatch up one of the fallen paintings, using the work of art as a shield. The witch’s sharp black-painted fingernails made short work of the canvas, slicing it to ribbons just inches from Batman’s face. The Dark Knight threw the frame aside, grabbing another as Grimling continued to advance.