5 Scary Stories for a Dark Knight Page 2

  “Soon you’ll be back where you belong, Grimling,” he said, goading her as she tore through the next painting, a once-regal-looking portrait of Gotham’s first mayor. “Imprisoned in The Witch’s Trap for all eternity, just as Augustus Nightstorm had intended.”

  “Never!” she screamed. “Never will you trap me like he did.”

  Batman’s back bumped against a wall. There was nowhere else to go, and he had only one painting within reach on the floor.

  “I never said it would be me,” he said, grabbing the last portrait and holding it out in front of him. Grimling raised her hand and struck, slashing viciously.

  Her nails never even reached the painting. Instead, a black gloved hand burst from the canvas and grabbed the witch’s thin wrist. Grimling’s eyes went wide as she realized which painting Batman was holding! Catwoman’s angry face glared at her from behind the portrait’s brushstrokes.

  “No!” Grimling screamed, trying to pull herself free of Catwoman’s steely grip. “The Witch’s Trap! It cannot be!”

  But it was. A flash of light blazed from the portrait as the magic of the binding spell reclaimed its prize. The lenses in Batman’s mask darkened for a second to protect his eyes from the unearthly light. When the mask cleared again, Grimling was gone. In her place stood Catwoman, who swayed on her feet and slumped to the floor just seconds before Theodore Nightstorm crashed down from the ceiling, released from the witch’s spell.

  Batman rushed to his side, relieved to see that the art dealer seemed unhurt by his ordeal, his limbs back to normal. The young man only seemed concerned with one thing….

  “Grimling?”

  In answer, Batman held up his ancestor’s painting, which once again showed Hilda Grimling trapped for all time in her enchanted portrait.

  Nightstorm shivered and waved the vile painting away. But despite having just escaped with his life from a terrible fate, he didn’t seem happy. He immediately began stomping around the gallery, surveying the damage. Not only had many pieces of art been destroyed, but he also quickly realized that the silver locket had gone missing.

  “First that blasted book, and now the locket…,” he mumbled, clearly agitated about something beyond the mere loss of some expensive items.

  “Book?” Batman inquired, raising a quizzical eyebrow behind his mask.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing,” the art dealer responded quickly. He waved Batman away and set about cleaning up his shop as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Batman frowned, turned, and slipped back into the night.

  As for Catwoman? Well, Batman had hoped the experience with the painting would teach the light-fingered lady a lesson she would never forget, but when he turned around, Catwoman was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the silver locket Batman had spotted when he’d first arrived at the gallery.

  Rumor has it that Ms. Kyle was quite pleased with herself for having stolen the locket from right under Batman’s nose. No doubt she would have considered it a purrrfect crime….

  There was, however, one troubling problem. The wretched little trinket was jammed shut. But like all curious cats, she just had to see what was inside. Eventually, she managed to slip one of her claws beneath the latch and—SNAP—the locket sprang open.

  But Ms. Kyle got more than she bargained for. That locket didn’t contain a miniature painting. Instead, a hideous ghost billowed from the pendant, released like a genie from a lamp.

  Master Bruce says you could hear Catwoman’s screams all the way back to Nightstorm’s shop….

  Well, one thing is certain: cats may have nine lives, but those who refuse to learn from their mistakes paint themselves into a corner, doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again.

  The night had started like any other in Gotham City: with a crime being committed.

  Despite his better judgment, The Penguin had teamed up with Edward Nigma—aka The Riddler—to rob the First Bank of Gotham.

  The heist hadn’t gone well. The Riddler—as usual—had found it impossible to commit a crime without first leaving a clue for Batman to solve. This time was no different. Soon Cobblepot and Nigma were on the run from the Batmobile, and it was only a matter of time before the dishonest duo would be brought to justice by the Dark Knight and his young sidekick, Robin.

  “Where can we hide?” The Riddler wailed, expecting Batman to strike at any second.

  “This way, you question-marked menace,” The Penguin quacked, leading The Riddler into an old, condemned building near Crime Alley.

  “Are you sure?” The Riddler asked as they walked the crumbling corridors, the floorboards squeaking alarmingly beneath their feet.

  “Relax,” The Penguin told his panicked partner in crime. They climbed the stairs to the top floor. “This is one of my oldest hideaways. Not even Batman will find us here.”

  “That’s not why I’m worried,” The Riddler told him, wringing the rim of his purple bowler hat. “This is the old Abernathy Hotel, right? Everyone knows it’s haunted.”

  “Ack!” The Penguin scoffed, waddling down a long corridor with a grimy window at the far end. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “No,” The Riddler replied as they stopped in front of a door marked 924. “But there are old mines under this entire neighborhood. Don’t you read the papers, Penguin? Just last week, a building like this collapsed into a sinkhole, not two blocks from here. One minute it was there, the next it had vanished into the ground. Riddle me this, Oswald—when is a safe house not safe at all? Answer: When it’s a death trap!”

  Still, The Penguin wouldn’t listen, unlocking the door, which creaked ominously as he pushed his way into the hotel. “That’s what makes it so safe, you nincompoop. Safe for us!” He closed the door behind him and slammed home not one, not two, but three heavy bolts.

  “No one in their right mind would come here,” said The Penguin. “You’re free to go, Edward, but this is one jailbird who isn’t ending up back behind bars.” To show that he meant it, The Penguin turned, rapping on the wall of the dirty room with the handle of his umbrella. “There’s nothing to fear in the Abernathy. Not ghosts, not the building, and definitely not being found by Batbrain. So which it is? Are you going to stay or go?”

  What choice did The Riddler have? He knew that Batman would strike as soon as he stepped back outside the hotel’s dilapidated doors, so he swallowed his fears, looking around at the temporary refuge. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. The room was small, sure, and it was hardly luxurious, but there was a bed (which The Penguin immediately claimed) and a sofa.

  The plaster was crumbling from the walls, and the windows were boarded up with old planks, but there were candles and even some food…old cans of tuna and sardines that The Penguin had stashed here long before. It wasn’t much of a supper, but soon The Riddler was curled up like a question mark on the threadbare sofa, snoring softly.

  The Penguin tutted and checked the door one last time before he too went to bed, blowing out the candle he’d lit and then climbing onto the lumpy mattress.

  But sleep wouldn’t come easy. Try as he might, the beaked-nose brute couldn’t drop off. He tossing and turned long into the night. The springs in the mattress were the problem, digging into his side every time he tried to get comfy.

  And then there were the noises.

  The sound of wind whistling down the corridor on the other side of the locked door. The creak of floorboards on the floor above. More the once, The Penguin sat up in bed, convinced that Batman was stalking across the roof, looking for them.

  But no Batarangs smashed through the windows. No fists pounded on the doors.

  Don’t get your feathers in a flap, The Penguin thought. Old buildings creaked. Especially this one. That was why fools like The Riddler thought these buildings were haunted. He and his accomplice were alone. They were safe. No one would find them here.

/>   He rolled over, using his fur-lined coat as a blanket, and tried again to fall asleep. Maybe he would count sardines, like his mumsie had taught him when he couldn’t sleep as a child.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  What was that?

  The Penguin’s eyes snapped open and he stared into the darkness.

  The bed frame groaned beneath The Penguin’s weight as he sat up sharply, listening.

  What is that? Where is it coming from? The Penguin reached out for the candle on the poor excuse of a bedside cabinet, groping blindly for it in the dark.

  The cabinet collapsed and the candle rolled out of sight.

  “Wh-what’s that?” The Riddler shouted, waking with a start. “Is it Batman? Is he here?”

  “It’s just the candlestick,” The Penguin replied, hauling himself out the bed and abandoning his search. Instead, he activated the flamethrower at the end of his umbrella, sending a spout of flame up toward the cobweb-strewn ceiling.

  “Now what are you doing?” The Riddler wailed. “Are you trying to set us on fire?”

  “Shhhh!” The Penguin hissed, putting a finger to his thin lips. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “Listen to what?”

  “To that!” The Penguin screeched, spinning around and almost setting fire to The Riddler’s hat. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “All I can hear is you trying to flash-fry everything. Turn that thing off!”

  Reluctantly, The Penguin complied, his head tilted as he strained to hear the sounds.

  “Something is definitely there. Like tiny claws, scratching.”

  The Riddler listened for a moment and then shook his head. “There’s nothing there. You’re imagining it. Go back to sleep.” With that, Nigma flopped back over on the sofa with his bowler hat over his eyes.

  The Penguin clutched his umbrella, fuming in the middle of the room. Who does The Riddler think he’s talking to, hmm? It hadn’t been The Penguin that had been quaking in his boots about ghosts and sinkholes. And now the puzzle-brained pinhead was accusing him of imagining things. And yet…

  And yet now the room was silent.

  The Penguin frowned. The sounds…the scratches…they had stopped.

  The Penguin stood in the darkness, his umbrella held tight in his hands. Perhaps Edward was right after all. Perhaps it was just the darkness playing tricks on him. Everything would seem better in the morning. Yes—yes, it would.

  He crawled back onto the mattress, hugging the umbrella to his chest, and finally fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed of monsters climbing up from the dark, dank foundations of the building, calling his name as they slithered and crawled toward him….

  The Penguin woke gasping for air. The noises were back, louder than ever, behind the headboard…behind the walls. Tiny little claws scratching at the woodwork. No, not tiny. Large. Huge. Monstrous, like in his dream.

  He wasn’t imagining it! The monsters were real! He could hear them as clearly as he heard…as clearly as he heard the voice that now came out of the darkness.

  “He’s coming for you, Oswald. The Bat is coming. He’ll find you. We’ll find you.”

  That was it. He’d had enough. The Penguin leapt from the bed and almost landed on the sofa, snatching The Riddler’s hat from his face.

  “What now?” Edward wailed as he was startled awake.

  The Penguin grabbed The Riddler by the lapels of his green jacket and poked the tip of his umbrella under the man’s chin.

  “Why would you say that, you traitorous turncoat?”

  “Say what?”

  “What you said about the Bat? Are you working with him? Is that what this is all about? Have you sold me out to Batman?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The Riddler insisted, pushing the umbrella aside and jumping up from the sofa. “Of course I’m not working with Batman. What’s gotten into you?”

  Oswald ran his fingers through his lank hair. “They’re in the walls. I can hear them. If it wasn’t you, it must have been them…talking to me, saying that Batman was on his way.”

  “You were dreaming,” said The Riddler. “You said it yourself—this place is as safe as they come. No one will find us here. Not the cops, and definitely not Batman.”

  But The Penguin wasn’t listening. All he could hear was the scratching behind the walls, his name echoing up from the foundations of the hotel!

  “Shut up!” The Penguin screamed, whirling around.

  “You were the one who started shouting!” The Riddler complained.

  “Not you, you fool. The bats…the bats in the wall. Can’t you hear them?”

  “All I can hear is you, birdbrain. Losing your mind.”

  Maybe that was true. Maybe The Penguin was going insane, but it was the sound of the bats driving him mad, those claws scratching at the plasterwork, trying to get into the room.

  “I’ll show you,” he said, pressing the hidden trigger on his umbrella. “I’ll show you they’re there. Just you see!”

  Fire blossomed from the end of the umbrella, burning what was left of the room’s faded wallpaper. Fearing that the hotel would burn down around their ears, The Riddler jumped forward, trying to wrestle the umbrella from The Penguin’s hand. There was a crack and the flames stopped, much to The Riddler’s relief and The Penguin’s dismay.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” the crazed criminal squawked. “Now we’ll never be able to stop them. To stop him!”

  “Just put the umbrella down,” The Riddler said, holding out a hand. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  “How can you say that?” The Penguin screeched, launching himself at the blackened wall. “How can you say that when they’re in there, clawing their way out?”

  And with that, The Penguin swung, smacking his umbrella into the plasterwork. Any other umbrella would have snapped in two with the force of the blow, but The Penguin’s umbrellas were always more than they seemed. He slammed it against the wall over and over again, the reinforced shaft clanging like a bell. But still, try as he might, he couldn’t drown out the scratching.

  The wall finally gave way, the umbrella smashing through the weakened plasterwork. And still The Penguin didn’t stop. He tore at the hole with the umbrella’s handle. The Riddler jumped aside to avoid being hit by the rubble.

  The hole got bigger and bigger and bigger, and…

  There were no bats.

  The Penguin stood panting in front of the hole he had created, breathing heavily and covered head to toe in dust. His head throbbed and his arms felt like lead weights.

  Where were the bats?

  The Riddler, on the other hand, had another question.

  “Have you finished?” he yelled in The Penguin’s face. “Or do you want to demolish the rest of the hotel? Why stop there? Why not knock down the entire block! It’s not like we need to keep quiet or anything!”

  The Penguin stared at the hole in the wall and then looked down at his umbrella. It was now bent in two, broken beyond repair. He had been so sure that there was something behind the wall. Something monstrous. Something out to get him.

  “I getcha, okay?” The Riddler said, his hands raised in front of him, as if worried The Penguin would start beating him now that the wall was smashed. “Being holed up in a place like this, it gets to ya. Especially when you-know-who is out there looking for us. But we’re going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine.”

  “You’re right,” Penguin wheezed, his shoulder slumping. “There’s nothing there.”

  The Riddler nodded, relieved that The Penguin seemed to have regained his senses. “Nothing at all. It was all just in your head. The bats…the scratching…”

  “The voices?”

  “Definitely the voices. The voices aren’t real.”

  “No
t real,” The Penguin repeated. “That makes sense. Just my imagination. There’s only one problem that I can see….”

  “And what’s that?”

  “If the voices aren’t real, why can I still hear them, Edward?”

  That was when they came, streaming up from the bowels of the earth, from deep beneath the foundations of the hotel, scraping, scrabbling, crawling, and hissing. Hundreds of sharp claws. Thousands of sharp claws, all desperate to find their prey.

  Desperate to find Oswald Cobblepot.

  The Penguin screamed as the creatures flew out of the hole, more bats than he could count, their black wings beating and red eyes blazing in the darkness. Too many wings. Too many eyes. They swarmed over him, crawling into his hair, under his shirt…and all the time The Riddler yelled that nothing was there. The liar!

  Couldn’t Edward see their hooked claws and their needle-sharp fangs? Couldn’t he smell their breath? They were everywhere at once, filling the room. Biting. Scratching. Calling his name.

  “I need to get out!” The Penguin screamed, running for the door.

  “Why?” The Riddler cried after him, his voice muffled by the sound of flapping wings. “What are you running from?”

  “You’re working with them,” The Penguin shouted back. “They’ve got inside your head, but they won’t get into mine.”

  He was at the door now—struggling with the bolts, the bats’ fangs digging into the backs of his hands.