DC2 Special #1: "An Arkham Christmas Carol"

The police detective turned his collar up against the cold, fighting the bustling crowds of last-minute shoppers this Christmas Eve night in Gotham, 1938. His hands tucked tightly in his pockets, Jim Corrigan did not spare a glance for the brightly lit window displays on Burnley Street, nor for the voices of the carolers who wandered past him, with their scarves and lyric sheets fluttering. No, he was fixed on his destination, and would not be distracted.

“Jim?” A high, pleasant voice called his name. He glanced up, and out of the swirling snow she materialized, like an angel--- and Jim Corrigan knew a thing or two about angels.

“Clarice.” He grimaced as she rushed up to him, wrapping her arms around his stiff frame. She was sweetness and innocence and smelled like orchids; and she was balm to the raging turmoil in his soul. Any other time he would have been glad for the sight of her, but not tonight. Tonight he had a mission. Tonight was the night he would finally deliver vengeance upon the gangster “Gat” Benson.

The man who had killed him.

“What are you doing out on a night like this?” He asked he, as gently as he was capable, disengaging from her embrace.

“A night like this?” Frowned Clarice, swiping at him playfully. “James Brendan Corrigan, it’s Christmas Eve, and everyone who’s anyone in Gotham society is headed to the same place: Amadeus Arkham’s house for his famous Christmas Eve séance!”

Corrigan bit off a profanity. Amadeus Arkham’s house was legendary in Gotham lore. The doctor had come over from the Old World to establish an asylum for those whose actions branded them outcasts from society, with the intention of employing the latest in psychotherapy to cure them. For a short time, he had turned the medical community of Gotham on its head, reforming such notable reprobates as “Crusher” MacCool, and “Happy Jack” Napier. But some years prior, on another Christmas Eve, one of his patients escaped his bonds, found his way into the residential wing of the great house, and brutally murdered Dr. Arkham’s beloved wife and daughter. Unrepentant, Martin “Mad Dog” Hawkins had gone to the electric chair for his crime, but Amadeus Arkham had never stopped blaming himself for the deaths of his wife and daughter. Since then, Arkham had thrown himself into spiritualistic research, calling upon mediums and psychics to reunite him with his dearly departed. He made the attempt every Christmas Eve, on the anniversary of their murder, and in recent years had taken to inviting the crème de la crème of Gotham society to participate in the séance, as witnesses. It had become the social event of the season, sure to thrill and amuse.

It was also where Corrigan was headed.

He had gotten a tip from his buddy at the Gazette, Larry Lance, that “Gat” Benson was hired muscle for the affair. It was then that Jim Corrigan had determined that there would indeed be at least one ghost at Arkham’s séance. But he had not counted on Clarice Winston. The socialite daughter of Gotham’s leading industrialist Percival Winston, she had a mind of her own, and would not easily be turned away. Besides, she had one thing that Corrigan didn’t: an invitation.

As graceful as he could manage, he extended his elbow to her.

“In that case, Ms. Winston, I humbly offer my services as your escort tonight, as I hardly think your father would approve of you attending such a dreadful---.”

His words were cut off by her joyous acceptance of his offer, and as she kissed him, he felt the fires of divine wrath burning within him cool for a little while…

Ned Wayne was bored. It wasn’t that the drawing room of old Arkham’s house wasn’t fabulously appointed--- it was, though it held not a candle to the luxury of Wayne Manor. It wasn’t that the champagne wasn’t of the finest vineyard in France--- it most certainly was. Nor was it that he lacked for interesting company--- all the glitterati of Gotham were here this night, nodding respectfully to him, hoping for a minute of two of his time, to enquire about his father’s health. No. Edward Wayne IV, of the Gotham Waynes, was bored because this was his third Christmas Eve séance at the “asylum” and he was sure that absolutely nothing interesting would happen this year--- as it had not happened the previous two years in a row.

He wandered from room to room (careful to stay within the residential wing!), making small talk with various magnates and socialites. It was in the lounge that he finally found something to amuse himself. She was tall and elegantly dressed, the sequins on her bodice reflecting the light of the chandelier. She had an exotic look about her, and though he could tell she wasn’t from around here, he couldn’t for the life of him say where. She was standing by the bar, sipping a glass of champagne, and stealing his breath away.

He wasted no time sidling up to her. She looked him over once, her eyebrow cocked appraisingly.

But before he could open his mouth, she boldly placed one long, slim finger on his lips.

“I know what you’re thinking.” She told him in a husky voice. “Why am I here again, wasting my time on this nonsense? Many of those gathered tonight are thinking the same thing. But this night is different, Edward Wayne, mark my words. Strange and terrible forces are afoot, and you will not leave this place the man you once were…”

Her words seemed to drop like portentous stones into the well of his being. A baffled expression came over his face, all the color drained from him.

The woman let her finger fall away, and she shrugged, her lips tracing the faintest suggestion of a smile.

“I’m Psychic.” She said, like an introduction.

“Rose!” Called a man’s rough voice.

A man in a colorless trenchcoat and fedora approached, and the woman went immediately to his waiting arm, casting a last mocking, if somewhat wistful, glance back at Ned.

“Coming, Richard.” She purred and they were away.

It was really him!

Her breath was still coming in excited gasps, and in her ears she could still hear the deep and musical tones of his voice. When she had first heard that he was coming, she could hardly believe it. She had followed his career from afar, listened to him on the radio, the rich timbre of his voice her only companion lo these many years.

But she had not dared to dream that he would be so handsome…

He had been surrounded by the loveliest specimens of Gotham society, each one of them hanging on his every word, and yet she could only content herself with a surreptitious glance through the eyes of the portrait...

She wrung her hands together. She had to see him. He was the only light in the dull grey existence she led, locked away from all the world in this horrible house. At least, she had to make the attempt.

Her nightdress trailing behind her like an antique wedding veil, she navigated the secret passages and the corridors behind the walls, the candle she carried before her casting looming shadows in all directions.

She realized she must look a fright. It had been years since she had seen another living soul, other than the inmates of the house… But she didn’t care. She would make the attempt.

The passage route took her into a part of the house the party guests could not go. The stone floor was moist beneath her bare feet, and somewhere came the sound of water dripping. The walls were lined with the bars of cells, and from them arose such a cacophony of moans that any sane person might have fled in terror, only she was well-used to it.

“Sssweeet Cordelia…” Came a sibilant whisper from one cell as she passed. She spared only a glance, shuddering at the pair of malevolent yellow eyes.

The corridors seemed endlessly, and increasingly darker, Fewer and fewer electric lights gave off their soft glow, and occasionally, a thin bony arm would reach from the cell to grasp at her, cold, cracked fingertips brushing the wisps of her nightdress. She seemed to be caught in a labyrinth, twisting and turning down the halls, her panic rising as she struggled to find her way out. It had been so long…!

She paused in the hall outside the room with the electrical apparatus, where the most horrid of screams usually came from. But not tonight. Tonight, the machine was quiet, no blue smoke drifting from the room. Tonight, everything had to be perfect for the old man’s séance…

Tears welled in her eyes. She was hopelessly turned around, utterly lost. And her stub of a candle was getting lower.

Then they came. As they always did when she was alone, and frightened. And losing her mind.

“Brothers, our little morsel has gone astray.”

“Filled with fright and dismay!”

Appearing out of the darkness, two of them gamboled and cavorted around her, while the third buzzed around her head to pluck cruelly at her hair.

“Go back, go back, while ye may!”

They laughed and laughed, as she tried to break from them, avoiding their wide, staring kaleidoscopic eyes.

“There is no escape for thee this night!” The one she knew as Rath taunted her, arms akimbo before her.

“No hope of rescue from thy plight.” Ghast tugged on her nightdress, and she yanked it away from him.

“Tonight we Arkham’s doom recite!” Giggling insanely, Abnegazar held up her hair as a shroud, but she broke away from him and his demonic brothers and ran sobbing down the corridor…

In the cells, the hapless inmates giggled with glee, in a chorus composed by the Demons Three…!

Ned Wayne dabbed at the spilled champagne on his lapel, watching the rude fellow that had just bumped him. The man, casually disregarding Ned, was headed with single-minded determination towards a rough-looking fellow at one end of the great hall.

Probably owes him money, Ned thought, and moved onto the next room.

He found himself in the ballroom, which was all astir with rumors that the medium had finally arrived. This one was different from the others of years before, it was whispered. She lived in Salem, and was said to commune with all kinds of spirits, year ‘round. Not especially looking forward to seeing her, Ned decided to duck outside and get some fresh air, to clear his head.

The balcony terrace he chose was occupied by one other, a tall thin man in coattails, who was smoking a cigarette and staring thoughtfully in the chill winter sky. Wayne recognized him instantly, having already seen his show.

“You’re Bertie Pennyworth.” He declared as the taller man turned, shaken from his thoughts.

“At your service,” Said the actor, extending his hand. “And now you have the advantage of me, Mr…”

“Wayne.” Ned shook the Englishman’s hand. “Edward Wayne. Call me Ned. I’m a big fan. Love your Malvolio.”

Bertie smiled gratefully and shrugged with a dismissive air. “I’ve played Laertes to Barrymore’s Hamlet, a Mercutio that outshone Geilgud’s Romeo, yet in Gotham I am best known for playing--- a butler!”

“Well, you know what they say: There are no small roles…”

“Quite so, quite so.” Bertie conceded coolly, then turned back to his silent contemplation of the night sky.

Feeling dismissed, and that he had perhaps offended the actor, Ned was about to go back inside the house, when abruptly Bertie addressed him.

“Do you believe in love at first sight, Wayne?”

Ned paused, taken aback by the question. Bertie still had his back to him, but he could tell the man was consumed by something. He had had a distracted, haunted look upon his face…

“I don’t know.” He said honestly, his breath misting in front of him. “I suppose…”

“I have seen a face…” Bertie said, almost a whisper, carrying on as if he hadn’t even bothered to listen to Ned’s response. “The face of a dead woman--- but the eyes were of a soft, lonely beauty, alive, but lost…!”

“Uh-huh.” Ned looked at the actor askance, and started to back away.

“I’m not raving, Wayne.” The actor snapped in vexation. “I speak of the portrait of the lady in the Master’s Library.”

“Ah.” Ned had seen it many times. “That’s Elizabeth. Dr. Arkham’s wife. The one that died that night. If this new medium is any good perhaps you’ll get to talk to her tonight---.”

“Did she have a daughter?”

“Yes, but she died that night as well.”

“I saw her.” Bertie declared, sure of himself. “I know it...”

Ned frowned. “Are you saying you saw a ghost?”

“No. She lives.” Bertie was never more sure of himself. “Those eyes… She is flesh and blood--- and she is lost. Abandoned. Tormented! I must find her!”

His mind made up, Bertie tossed his cigarette to the snow below, and rushed back inside the house.

Cordelia Arkham’s screams still echoing like the sweetest melody in their ears, the Demons Three went about their dread business.

“Here’s one mad, a raving loon.” Abnegazar chose the cell of a particular inmate, touching the bars to dissolve them. “His time is served, freed too soon!”

The man advanced from his cell, unperturbed by the grinning demons before him. His limbs were still twitching from recent electro-shock therapy.

“Another still to work our will.” Ghast did a dance, then pointed to another cell, the door clanging open, releasing a desperate-looking man whose mouth was flecked with foam. “Free to roam, ravage, kill!”

Rath threw up his hands, cackling as the rest of the doors on the cell-block sprang open. “Work the chaos that we weave! What a merry Christmas Eve!”

The Spectre pursued “Gat” Benson into the bowels of Arkham House.

The gangster fled headlong into the secret parts of the house, the parts he had been hired by the owner to keep all others away from--- but he had no thought for this, seeking only to escape the relentless phantasm howling for his blood.

The ghost who was the divine agent of vengeance had free reign over Jim Corrigan’s soul. As a man, he had been devoted to justice, a protector and servant of society--- but now he only wanted his killer to hurt as bad as he had, to feel the icy hand of doom claw at him, drag him down to the grave…

The Spectre could have caught his prey at any time. Instead, he chased him, drove him into a frenzy of terror--- and the Spectre fed on that fear. It was balm to Jim Corrigan’s wounded soul.

Neither one of them paid heed to the raving lunatics swarming like rats from the basement and the closed wing of the house, paroled on Christmas Eve by three malevolent imps…

The room where the séance took place was large enough for all the guests to squeeze into, and they lined the portrait-covered walls, whispering and sipping their drinks, and watching the lucky few chosen to sit at the table with the participants.

The medium had ordered that all electrical lights be shut off, so the room was lit only by candle, including the ornate candelabra on the middle of the table. Around the table sat Inza Cramer, with Dr. Arkham on her left and George Taylor, the reporter from Metropolis on her right. Also at the table was Zatara, who watched the medium very closely from directly opposite her, Ned Wayne and the trench-coated man and exotic-looking woman he had met briefly earlier, Richard and Rose. Upon Inza’s instructions, they had all joined hands, and kept their feet flat on the carpeted floor.

When she had judged the moment right, the medium closed her eyes and a spontaneous hush fell over the watching crowd. She began to speak in a clear voice that carried across the room.

“By hook or by crook, by bell, book and candle,” She intoned in an ethereal voice. “Spirits abroad, beloved or vandal: I summon thee hence, let this séance commence!”

Some in the crowd nodded and whispered appreciatively, but at the table, Zatara groaned and muttered: “Stuff and nonsense! It’s all a pretense!”

Those who heard the remarked rolled their eyes and glared at him; only Tong, standing a few feet behind his master snorted, amused.

Inza Cramer went on.

“I summon thee, those that haunt this house: make yourselves known!” She said in a more serious voice, getting down to business. “Forlorn spirits that linger still upon this earthly plane, visit us now, that we may help you crossover…”

The small flames of the candelabra in the middle of the table suddenly flared, causing Ned Wayne, Dr. Arkham and George Taylor to flinch in surprise.

“Flash powder.” Zatara dismissed the phenomenon casually.

The trench-coated man bit his lip and looked unconvinced. The beauty next to him cocked her head as if straining to hear something.

“They are all around us.” Inza Cramer pronounced, and at her words, an inexplicable wind arose from within the room, stirring her hair, and causing the candle-flames to dance, casting crazy shadows across the room.

The crowd murmured uneasily, and ladies found a gentleman to cling to.

“Legerdemain.” Zatara pronounced, but no one paid him heed, and even he sounded unconvinced, his brow furrowed.

Amadeus Arkham glanced about him hopefully, the strange wind mussing the wisps of his white hair. “Elizabeth? Speak to me, my dear! I miss you so much…!”

“Elizabeth is not here.” Said the medium in a deep, sonorous voice. “She has crossed over. In her last act of selfless sacrifice she earned her reward. But there are other spirits that haunt the walls and blood-soaked boards of Arkham House, malevolent spirits, tied to the evil done here, thirsting for blood… for revenge!”

“W-W-What…?” Dr. Arkham stammered. “What do you mean?”

As if from a great distance, there came the sound of horrible moans and long piteous screams, echoing faintly as if a memory they all collectively recalled.

With a start, Inza Cramer opened her eyes, revealing her pupils rolled up into her head. She turned her disconcerting gaze upon the master of the house. “Your patients, Dr. Arkham. The inmates of the asylum. How many of them have died within these walls?”

Dr. Arkham looked panicked, tried to pull his hand away from Inza, but she clutched it tightly, with a preternatural strength, demanding his attention.

“They are criminals… Deviants! Society’s castoffs! I only seek to rehabilitate them, to teach them the errors of their ways…”

“How many?” Inza demanded, her voice weird and hollow.

The wind in the room rose, and the faint sounds of torment grew more distinct.

“I don’t know… There have been some accidents… the electro-shock machine can be unreliable--- and some could not handle the injections…”

“How many?”

“Twenty seven!” Dr. Arkham cried shrilly.

In the watching crowd, more than one breathless onlooker swooned and fainted.

“Murder!” Inza yelled over the now howling wind, still holding tight to the men on either side of her. “Torture! Violation of the most profound sense. This place is defiled and unclean! Evil makes its home here!”

At that, the currents of the wind took shape, and swirling above the table could be seen the forms of men, in ragged tatters of clothes, wearing expressions of insane rage!

Then the screaming began. People broke for the doors of the conservatory, pushing and climbing over each other to escape. But there was only one exit, and it quickly became blocked by the sheer amount of bodies pressing into it.

At the table, the linked chain of people held firm, and Ned Wayne, staring slack-jawed up at the macabre sight above him, was forced to admit that this had indeed turned out to be the most interesting Christmas Eve in years…

Zatara was forced to re-evaluate his opinion on Inza Cramer. There certainly seemed to be a paranormal event occurring all around them…

“Amadeus Arkham, you have cursed this house for all time!” Inza bellowed over the howling wind and screams of the onlookers. “The stain upon this place shall never be clean! Evil shall ever beget evil!”

In his frantic thrashings, Dr. Arkham was able to at last break free. Covering his ears with his hands, he fled the conservatory through a hidden exit behind an arras.

The chain broken, Zatara released the hand in his, and adjusted his gloves.

“There may be something to this claptrap after all,” He called to Inza, congenially.

“This is not good.” Inza announced, her eyes and her voice back to normal. She looked genuinely frightened. “With the mystic circle broken, the malevolent spirits that were lurking just beyond the pale are free to fall upon this house at last.”

“What are we talking about here?” Asked the trench-coated man. “Poltergeists? Gremlins?”

“Much worse, Richard Occult.” She answered. “I sense that the mischief tonight has been orchestrated by three demonic imps, denizens of the Infernal Pit itself. But there is much abroad in this house tonight. I sense an angelic presence, though one of wrath--- he is distracted now, and unconcerned with these proceedings. But there is one more, and he frightens me. It is a spirit of malice and pure hatred. It was a man once, and no stranger to this place. His soul is in torment, and it lusts for blood… the blood of a young woman… the blood of an Arkham!”

There was a loud and sudden POP! and in the air above the table there appeared three spindly-legged, bug-eyed creatures.

“Merry Christmas to all!” One cried.

“And to all a good fright!” Said another.

Richard Occult sprang up, brandishing an arcane symbol of power, but before he could speak the words to activate it, the demon Ghast barreled into him, and the two went rolling backward on the floor.

“That’s quite enough of that!” Zatara wiggled his fingers in the direction of the other two, but quicker than the eye could follow, Abnegazar snatched the magician’s hat off his head, causing Zatara to yelp and grab for it instinctively. Abnegazar tossed the hat to Rath, who twirled it around by its brim teasingly.

“As sure as Satan is a liar,” The demon hurled the hat into the air and out of Zatara’s lunging grasp. “Where there’s smoke, there’s always fire!” And with that, the top hat caught flame, then abruptly took with a life of it’s own and zinged across the room, by the fluttering curtains--- which instantly caught fire, as well.

Exasperated, Zatara watched as his hat flew from the room, spreading fire and chaos where it went.

The young magician turned back to the smug-looking demons and began rolling up his sleeves menacingly.

“Maledizione! That was my favorite hat, you infernal little bastards…!”

By the time they reached the ground floor, Bertie and Cordelia could smell smoke. They had had to fight their way through gangs of ruffians, though luckily most of them were more concerned with escaping the house than waylaying the young lovers.

In the great hall, chaos ensued. Flames licked at the walls, guests and inmates alike ran here and there, and above it all, cavorted the spirits of the men tortured to death in the asylum.

“Oh, dear.” Bertie remarked.

Ahead of them, the great doors were blocked with fallen and flaming timber, but the glass windows were smashed open, black smoke trailing out of them.

“Come along, my dear!” Bertie exclaimed, pulling the unprotesting Cordelia behind him.

But before they could reach the safety of the windows, a figure sprang up in front of them. His shoulders were straighter, and his back less hunched--- but there was no mistaking Amadeus Arkham.

On his face was the most twisted look of lust and hatred of which human expression was capable.

Clutched in his bony fist was a fencing foil, retrieved from a nearby wall.

“F-F-Father…?” Cordelia whimpered.

“No.” Spoke Dr. Arkham, advancing on them, the sword raised. “Oh, he’s in here somewhere,” Arkham tapped his wispy bald pate. “But I’m in control now, my pretty.”

“Dr. Arkham, what is the meaning of this, sir?” Demanded Bertie, shoving Cordelia protectively behind him, backing away from his encroaching host.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to come back and play with you some more, Cordelia,” Leered the face of her father. “Ever since that first night, all those years ago.”

Cordelia gasped, peeking around Bertie’s shoulder.

“That voice! I know that voice! How--- How is this possible…?”

Arkham slashed threateningly with his blade, driving them ever backward.

“Death is no hindrance on a night such as this…” Hissed the spirit inside Arkham. “Especially to an initiate of Nanda Parbat, praise be to Rama Kushna! And I have waited so long…” The possessed man took an involuntary breath, a paroxysm of anticipation coming over him. “Watching you, hungering for you..! To taste at last what I had only glimpsed in life! And I shall have my revenge on your father, the enactor of my destruction, as he is forced to watch and feel it all, the very instrument of my revenge!”

The fencing foil traced an intricate pattern in the air before them, and Bertie did his best to evade the whirling blade, shielding his beloved’s body with his own. The point tore a gaping hole in Bertie’s tuxedo jacket, and a scarlet line appeared on the thespian’s cheek.

“This is not your father?” Bertie shot over his shoulder at Cordelia, as their attacker lunged at them with the vigor of a much younger man.

“No!” Cordelia squealed, flinching away from the flashing blade. “It’s the man who killed my mother! It’s ‘Mad Dog’ Hawkins!”

“Gat” Benson reached a landing, and was forced to pause, gasping for breath. A quick glance showed the stairwell behind him was clear--- no sign of the phantom that pursued him.

He found himself in a hallway, at the end of which was a dead end, with only an upper-storey window, the big, bright Gotham moon shining through it. There were no stairs going up. He was at the end of the line. He would have to backtrack, before the Spectre caught up with him.

Despite the chill, he was sweating profusely as he searched the hallway for hidden doors or passages, some way to escape. His cracked and bleeding fingers pulled at hanging portraits, pounded on floor boards, and he banged on the walls, listening for hollow spaces.

But his time was up. From the stairs, materializing from the aether, came the Spectre.

Overwhelmed with dread, Benson watched at as the now-familiar white and green figure took shape, growing larger as it got closer to him. The pale face was a mask of grim satisfaction, and Benson shrank away from the awful purpose he saw there.

“Michael Eugene Benson,” Intoned the Spirit of Vengeance. “Your crimes reek to heaven. You have murdered and stolen. You have lied and cheated. You have profaned the law of God and Men. Your reckoning is upon you.”

Holding his hands before him, as if that were enough to fend off the Spectre’s fateful judgment, Benson stumbled away, pressing his back against the cold glass of the window behind him.

“No, please!” He pleaded, sobbing. “I didn’t know… I just never thought…”

“You never thought of the lives you destroyed.” The Spectre loomed large over the doomed criminal. “Jim Corrigan can never hold the woman he loves again without her feeling the chill of the grave in his bones. Nor can he be free to love her as a man should, for he serves another mission now, a mission of divine retribution… He will watch her grow old, wither and die, and still will he pursue vermin like you who prey upon society… There is much you never thought of ‘Gat’ Benson, but you shall have all eternity to think on it now in the fires of the Pit!”

The spectral hand reached for Benson.

Crying out in utter horror, Benson turned and hurled himself through the glass and out the window!

Somewhere, bells began to toll midnight.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl for the Spectre. He watched as Benson’s body exploded out through the window, the glass shattering into a thousand points of glittering light. He heard the chimes of the clock tolling midnight, and an eternity expired between each awful intonation.

It was Christmas.

Jim Corrigan recalled the last Christmas he spent on Earth, huddled close with Clarice by a fireplace, mugs of egg nog in their hands, and Edith Piaf on the RCA Victor. The Christmas before that, he had spent visiting his mother, helping her trim the tree and carve the ham…

This Christmas was different. This Christmas he had driven a man, albeit an awful man, to suicide. He had filled this man with so much terror and confusion, that he had decided to take his own life…

Was this his mission? Was this what the Almighty had intended for Jim Corrigan for all eternity?

With an agonizing scream that echoed through the mystic corridors of the Multiverse, the Spectre expanded, bursting the physical bonds of reality. Somewhere between the third and the fourth tolling of the bell, the Spectre had grown so that he was now outside the house, looming over it in the sky, darkening it with his shadow.

The body of “Gat” Benson was still arcing over the empty air, his arms and legs pinwheeling in slow motion, his face a mask of terror.

The Spectre searched the heavens for some sign, something to allay his sudden doubt. The snow lay suspended in midair, and the moon was obscured by clouds. It seemed that all the light had gone out in the world---

Then there was a bright pinbrick of brilliance in the sky. Something dazzled, a faraway star, that wasn’t there before; it flared and danced, as if reminding the man that had once been Jim Corrigan of another star, that had--- long, long ago!--- led wise men to an answer of their own.

Between the fifth and sixth tolling of the bell, and just as “Gat” Benson was falling past the arched gables and roof tops of Arkham House, the Spectre stretched forth his hand and snatched him from doom.

In the grip of the Spectre, “Gat” Benson cowered in fear.

As if studying an insect he intended to squash, the Spectre’s face loomed over his captive.

But it was Jim Corrigan’s voice that “Gat” Benson heard.

“Your judgment has been postponed. This is not a night for divine wrath, no matter how richly you deserve it. But tomorrow is another day, Michael Eugene Benson. You have twenty four hours to contemplate your fate. A short wenty four hours to make your life worth sparing. Twenty four hours to make your life worth living.”

The immense hand descended, lowering the shaking, stuttering man to the snow packed ground behind the house. Without a second look, “Gat” Benson ran off into the woods.

With a final glance up at the gleaming celestial beacon that had shown him his way this night, the Spectre vanished.

And Jim Corrigan went in search of Clarice Winston in the milling crowd outside the front entrance of the house.

Sitting on the open back-door of a police wagon, Bertie wrapped Cordelia in his torn and bloody dinner jacket, and the two huddled together against the cold and snow.

“I want to thank you again, Mr. Wayne.” Bertie looked up at Ned, who had just finished giving his deposition to a bespectacled police detective. “You saved both our lives.”

“It was the right thing to do.” It is what I should do, he thought, and remembered again the words the exotic-looking woman had spoken to him earlier that night: You will not leave this place the man you once were…

“What will you do, now?” He asked the young lovers.

“I will take Cordelia back to England with me, and away from these traumatic events.” Bertie replied, pulling the softly smiling woman closely to him. “And I think I shall forsake the limelight of the stage. The Pennyworths have a long and grand tradition as gentlemen’s gentlemen. My father is himself batman to the First Lord of the Admiralty.”

“Batman?” Ned arced an eyebrow at the unfamiliar term.

“Assistant. Driver and valet. Right-hand man.” Bertie clarified.

“Ah.” Ned mulled it over. “Well, good luck to you both. Please don’t hesitate to look me up if you are ever in Gotham again.”

He shook both their hands, then walked away, giving them some much-appreciated privacy.

The snow crunching under his feet, he made his way to where his car had been parked, though much was in turmoil now, with the police and fire brigade swarming over the property. The fire in the house was almost under control now, and Ned thought about financing its reconstruction. Surely it should be put to use towards the originally noble goal that had been intended… After all, on this night, Ned Wayne had to believe that no one was incapable of rehabilitation.

Through the swirling snow, he at last caught sight of the lone star shining perfectly in the night sky, like a many faceted crystal, hung in the heavens. If he were more superstitious a man, he might have believed, like some of the other lingering and relieved survivors of this night, that he was looking at a Christmas miracle…

With his eyes skyward, he didn’t notice the man until he walked into him.

“Oh! Excuse me---.” He started, then recognized the man as the one who had thoughtlessly bumped him in the house not a few hours before. The man was walking arm in arm with Clarice Winston, who smiled at Ned, and elbowed her escort playfully.

Before Ned could comment, the formerly rude fellow inclined his head politely, and said in a humbled, subdued voice: “Think nothing of it. Merry Christmas.”

Ned watched the two walk away until they had disappeared into the falling snow. A smile spread across his face, and he said quietly to no one in particular: “A Christmas miracle…”