Scarecrow- Owens Hallucination

  Owens stumbled back. What he was looking at was some sort of impossible nightmare. He turned to scan the rest of the diners…

  What the hell?

  …and suddenly realized there were no longer any human customers, but other things, moving—some even slithering—as if nothing unusual had occurred. He rubbed his eyes, certain it couldn’t be real. Yet when he looked again, the shapes were in front of him.

  One by one they turned to stare at one another, as if noticing—and finally, comprehending—what had taken them over.

  Pauli’s Diner, established in the mid-1950s by a former city mayor, loved by the locals as much for its amply portioned home-style dinners as its low prices, was filled with… monsters!

  And as one the monsters screamed.

  “Dispatch, Scott Owens, badge number 47532. I need immediate backup. Pauli’s Diner, Fourteenth and Moldoff.” Pause. “No. I can’t explain why. You have to believe me. And for God’s sake, please hurry.” Officer Owens reached for his weapon but his hand had been replaced with lobster claws which couldn’t hold the gun.

  The shapes rushed back and forth in chaos. Their arms—sometimes only tentacles—flailed mindlessly, lashing out at anyone, anything, that came close. And the screams grew louder.

  Then the shapes were over him, screaming at him. He tried to tell them he was a policeman, but his own words sounded—even to him—like the growling of a wild dog.

  Fists and tentacles slammed at him. He felt his face being cut, warm blood spurting from the wounds. The monsters began piling on top of him, first one, then more, fists hitting him, sharp teeth—no, they were fangs—biting into him even as he bit back, sinking his own teeth into the arms or whatever were holding him down.

  Owens could never remember being so afraid. Every time one of the things moved, no matter how slightly, his heart raced, his chest pounded, his skin was covered by a slick sheen of sweat. In his college days he had climbed mountains. He fell once, and his injuries kept him in the hospital for almost four months. But even as he fell, he hadn’t felt this kind of dread. It was pervasive and it controlled him and he prayed for death rather than suffer it for even another moment.

  He twisted and like slime he seemed to flow through the gaps between the other beasts. His claws became flippers and he used them to push ahead. The diner door was only feet away, but it might as well be on the other side of the planet. There were monsters blocking every escape route.

  Still he struggled through the mob, and realized these creatures were as confused and terrified as he. They weren’t trying to kill him. They were trying to escape, to protect themselves from harm.

  Suddenly the front door seemed to explode. Monsters pounded at it, shattering its glass, then pulling their way over the shards and other creatures as they escaped from what had to be hell. Owens was carried along with the others and found himself outside, on the street, his flippers reforming into fingers attached to hands, part of a body that was—thank God—human again.

  He fell face down in the gutter. Looking up, he saw a dozen men and women running from the diner as if they still were being chased. A few lay on the sidewalk, or even the street. Some of them looked pretty bad. But there were no other monsters.

  Somehow, the threat that came out of nowhere was gone.

  Yet the fear was still there.

  Owens reached for his phone and tried to call his precinct dispatcher, but he was unable to control his voice. His words still sounded like the howling of a wild animal. And even if he could speak, he couldn’t imagine that they would believe him when he said that he had barely escaped with his life from a diner filled with demons.

  His hands trembled and he dropped the phone. He tried to pick it up, but it suddenly vibrated. Startled, he dropped it yet again.

  One of the fleeing customers stepped on the phone, crushing it. Owens felt utterly alone, and the fear spiked. Like the others, he wanted to run away, and began to pick himself up, but his legs collapsed under him and he was unable to move.

  He lay there waiting for death.

  But he didn’t die.

  What he had seen could not have been real, no matter how true it felt. Was it an hallucination? Mass hysteria? If so, did everyone see the same monsters? How was that even possible?

- Batman: Arkham Knight, chapter 1