Jðkêr//Är†hµr x RêåÐêr ïmågïñê§ & ðñê-§hð†§

• The Inheritance (pt.1)

The grounds were of course in a complete, shambolic mess. The winding pathway was mostly covered by overgrown shrubbery, and brambles that snagged annoyingly on your unsuitably thin coat.

You stumbled more than once; cursing under your breath. The heavy suitcase you were having to carry didn't exactly help matters either. In retrospect, you should've checked-in at the hotel first and left it there, but hindsight was a beautiful thing.

You'd been too eager to see what your dear old foster-uncle had bequeathed to you in his will; wanting to look around the place before it grew dark.
However, due to your flight having been delayed, and the impenetrable gloominess of the Gotham sky, you were starting to wish you'd rethought your initial plan.
The light was already beginning to fail.

As you reached the large front steps, you set your case down and gazed up at the towering structure.

There was no glass in many of the front-facing windows, and no lights in them either thank god; contrary to urban legend. The cab driver had been keen, far too keen for your liking in fact, to spook you with tales of strange goings-on at night; a lone light burning in one of the upper windows in the evening, a ghostly face peering-out through the gates at night.

Superstitious rubbish, you reasoned. No crumbling, deserted mansion was worth the mortar it was built with if it didn't come with at least one resident ghost, or urban myths of having one.

You had done a bit of research ahead of your journey. There wasn't much to read, and what little information you could find was immensely disturbing.

Originally known as Mercey Mansion, Arkham Asylum was founded and run by Amadeus Arkham, who legend has it, was slowly driven insane following the grisly murder of his wife and child by a lunatic named Martin "Mad Dog" Hawkins.
Amadeus Arkham eventually became a patient in his own asylum until his death, after which the custodianship of the Asylum was passed down to his nephew, Jeremiah.

Jeremiah Arkham had since relocated to the mainland, where he worked as one of the top psychiatrists at Arkham State Hospital.

How or why your foster-uncle had purchased the abandoned asylum was a mystery to you. All you knew was that he had bought the building hoping to renovate it, then abandoned the project; leaving it to you in his will.

With no other family to ask, you could only speculate why the old man would've bequeathed it to you. You had left Gotham years ago. You had no head for business or interest in property development. Therefore you could only deduce that the kindly man you'd once called uncle, had thought he'd be doing you a favour by leaving you property. Something to finally call your own. And it was out of respect for him, and sentiment, that you'd booked a flight back to the city you'd once called home, in order to take a look around the place for yourself.

With wicked timing, a sudden rustling sound made you jump; shattering your thoughts.

You whirled around.

Just a raven taking wing.

So there was some life here after all.

You placed a hand to your heart; feeling it thump dramatically beneath your breastbone.

"Come on, (y/n). Get a grip." You scolded yourself.

Feeling overwhelmed by your strange surroundings and weak with hunger, you closed your eyes and coerced air into your lungs.