Chapter 2: Dreams of Blood
The Gotham City Emergency Medical Center had never seen anything like it.
Dr. Mary Grey rubbed her tired eyes as she reviewed the admission reports for the third time, hoping the numbers would somehow change.
In the past 48 hours, her sleep disorders clinic had received over 300 calls from citizens reporting same symptoms: complete inability to sleep, accompanied by vivid, terrifying nightmares that occurred even during the smallest of naps.
"Doctor Mary Grey?" Nurse Patricia Williams approached with another stack of intake forms. "We've got seventeen more walk-ins since midnight. Same complaints—insomnia and shared nightmares about castles and... blood."
Dr. Mary Grey accepted the forms with growing unease. As Gotham's leading sleep specialist, she'd seen her share of unusual cases. The city's stress levels naturally ran high, between the crime rate and frequent supervillain attacks. But this was different. The patients weren't just experiencing insomnia—they were all having the same dream somehow.
Ancient stone corridors. Torchlight flickering against Gothic arches. The overwhelming scent of copper and decay. And always, always, the sound of something drinking in the darkness.
"Has anyone contacted the CDC?" she asked, reviewing the latest admission form. Margaret Kelloway, age 34, marketing executive. No prior history of sleep disorders. Reported identical dream content to previous patients.
"Dr. Meridian called this morning," Williams replied. "They're sending a team tomorrow to investigate potential environmental causes. They are hoping for some kind of contamination, maybe."
Dr. Mary Grey nodded absently, but contamination didn't explain the specificity of the shared dream. In twenty years of practice, she'd never encountered anything approaching this level of consistency in patient reports. It was as if the entire city was somehow sharing the same nightmare.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her husband: I can't sleep again. Having the same dream about the castle. Coming in for evaluation.
The epidemic was spreading.
* * * * *
Across the city in Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne jolted upright in his bed, sweat-soaked sheets clinging to his chest as the nightmare faded.
The dream had been more vivid this time—so real he could still taste the metallic air and feel the cold stone beneath his feet.
He'd been standing in a vast hall dominated by a massive stone throne. Tapestries bearing unfamiliar heraldic symbols hung from the walls, their colors dulled by centuries of neglect. Candlelight provided the only illumination, casting shadows that seemed to move independently on their own.
And on the throne...
Bruce shook his head, trying to clear the lingering images. The figure had been vague—more like a feeling than a clear sight. Ancient. Powerful. Filled with a kind of malevolence that had seemed to look directly through the dream into his soul.
Welcome, Dark Knight, the voice had whispered, though no lips had moved. I have been waiting so very long to meet you.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice carried concern even through the heavy oak door. "I heard you cry out. Are you quite alright?"
"Come in, Alfred."
The elderly butler entered with a tea tray, his usually impeccable appearance slightly disheveled. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd been having his own sleep difficulties.
"The Queen Anne you requested," Alfred said, setting the tray on the bedside table. "Though I must confess, I'm not entirely certain why you asked for tea at three in the morning."
Bruce frowned. "I didn't request tea."
"Oh." Alfred paused, looking genuinely confused. "How odd. I could have sworn... well, no matter. The tea is prepared nonetheless."
They looked at each other in the dim light filtering through the bedroom's tall windows.
"Alfred," Bruce said carefully, "have you been sleeping well lately?"
The butler's expression grew thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, Master Bruce, I've been experiencing rather unusual dreams. Some sort of ancient places, stone walls, the scent of..." He trailed off, looking troubled.
"Blood?"
Alfred's eyes widened slightly. "Yes. How did you—of course. You've been having them too."
Bruce nodded grimly. If both he and Alfred were experiencing identical dream, and Dr. Mary Grey's reports suggested a citywide epidemic, this wasn't a coincidence. Something was affecting Gotham's population on a massive scale.
"I'll need to investigate this further," he said, already mentally shifting into Batman mode. "Something's causing these shared nightmares. Some kind of environmental contamination, chemical agent, or..."
"Or something else entirely," Alfred finished quietly.
They sat in contemplative silence for several minutes, sipping tea and trying to make sense of the unexplainable. Outside, Gotham City continued its restless vigil, thousands of citizens tossing in their beds as ancient dreams invaded their sleep.
* * *
At Arkham Asylum, Dr. Jonathan Crane finished reviewing the overnight incident reports with fascination. As the institution's chief psychiatrist and former Scarecrow, he understood fear more intimately than most people understood happiness. The reports described something extraordinary.
Every single patient in the facility—from the relatively stable to the completely catatonic—had experienced identical nightmare content.
Even patients in medically induced comas had shown signs of distress consistent with active dreaming. Heart rates elevated, stress hormones spiking, brain activity patterns matching REM sleep despite chemical sedation.
"Most intriguing," he murmured, making notes in his private journal. "The drea transcends individual psychology and seems to come from an external source. But what source could penetrate so many minds simultaneously?"
His phone rang, interrupting his analysis.
"Dr. Crane? This is Dr. Mary Grey at Gotham General. I understand you're our city's expert on fear-related psychological phenomena?"
"Among other things, yes. How may I assist you?"
"As you might have heard, we're dealing with a citywide sleep disorder outbreak. I was hoping you might have some insight."
Dr. Crane smiled, though his voice remained professionally neutral. "I would be delighted to consult on your case. The phenomenon you're describing is quite remarkable from a psychological perspective."
"Can you come in this morning? We're setting up a task force to investigate."
"Of course. I'll bring my files from similar cases." He paused, already formulating theories. "I'll be there within the hour."
* * * * *
The storm hit Gotham Harbor hard at 2:17 AM.
Meteorologist Janet Reeves watched the weather system develop on her radar screens with disbelief. The storm had materialized seemingly from nowhere—no atmospheric conditions to support its formation, no pressure systems to explain its intensity. One moment the harbor had been experiencing normal October weather, the next moment hurricane-force winds were tearing across the waterfront.
"This is impossible," she muttered, adjusting her equipment for the third time. "Weather doesn't just spontaneously generate like this."
The storm was circular, centered over the harbor with a calm eye. Lightning hit the water at regular intervals, as if following a set pattern, and the winds spiraled in ways that defied normal weather physics.
Harbor Master Tom Bradley was fighting to maintain radio contact with the few vessels still attempting to navigate the suddenly treacherous waters. Emergency protocols had been activated, warning all marine traffic to seek immediate shelter, but several ships were already caught in the storm's grip.
"Mayday, mayday," crackled through the radio static. "This is cargo vessel Demeter, requesting immediate assistance. We're taking heavy damage and—"
The transmission cut to static.
Bradley tried to reestablish contact. "Demeter, this is Gotham Harbor Control, please respond. What is your position and crew status?"
Nothing but empty static filled the airwaves.
On his radar screen, Bradley could see a large vessel approximately three miles offshore, moving steadily toward the harbor despite the violent weather. The ship's transponder identified it as the Demeter, registered out of Varna, Bulgaria, carrying agricultural cargo. But something was wrong with the radar signature—the vessel appeared to be moving through the storm without being affected by the winds or waves that were battering everything else in the area.
"Demeter, please respond," Bradley repeated. "You are approaching restricted waters. Current harbor conditions are unsafe for docking."
Still no response.
Through his office window, Bradley saw the storm's unnatural force. Thirty-foot waves slammed into the harbor walls, lightning flashing at regular intervals. No ship should be able to navigate those conditions, yet the Demeter continued its steady approach.
At 3:45 AM, as suddenly as it had appeared, the storm began to dissipate. The winds fell quiet, the waves softened, and the lightning dimmed to faint flashes on the horizon. Within ten minutes, Gotham Harbor was experiencing the eerie calm that sometimes follows violent weather.
And the Demeter continued its approach in perfect silence.
* * *
As dawn broke over Gotham City, thousands of exhausted citizens finally fell into brief, troubled sleep. In their dreams, they walked ancient corridors and felt the presence of something vast and patient and hungry.
And in those same dreams, a voice whispered words that would haunt them through the coming day:
Soon, my children. Very soon, you will understand why I have called you here.